THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 


BY 

BEN  AMES  WILLIAMS 

Author  of  "The  Sea  Bride,"  "All  the  Brothers 
Were  Valiant,"  etc. 


H3eto  gorb 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1920 

All  rights  reserved 


0)1,1 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BT  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  March,.ig2o. 


TO 

MOTHER 


5272G7 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  HARDISTON 3 

II    AMOS  CARETALL 7 

III  WINT  CHASE 16 

IV  JACK  ROUTT 22 

V  COUNCIL  OF  WAR 27 

VI    WINTHROP  CHASE,  SENIOR 36 

VII    V.  R.  KITE 45 

VIII    THE  RALLY 50 

IX    HETTY  MORFEE 56 

X    THE  ELECTION 60 

XI    THE  NOTIFICATION 69 

BOOK  II 

I      MULDOON 81 

II  JOAN 90 

HI    THE  STRATEGY  OF  AMOS 100 

IV    INTERLUDE 112 

V    ALLIANCE 119 

VI  THE  WHISTLE  BLOWS 127 

BOOK  III 
INTO  HARNESS 

I    ON  His  OWN  FEET 135 

II    JOAN  TO  WINT    . 146 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

III  ROUTT  TO  KITE 154 

IV  WINT  TO  JOAN 164 

V    WINT  GOES  HOME .      .         170 

VI    A  WORD  AS  TO  HETTY 176 

VII    ORDERS  FOR  RADABAUGH     .  .  186 


BOOK  IV 

LINE  OF  BATTLE 

I    MARSHAL  JIM  RADABAUGH 197 

II    THE  BREWING  STORM 207 

III  A  HARD  DAY  FOR  KITE 213 

IV  CHASE  CHANGES  SIDES v    .  222 

V    THE  TRIUMVIRATE 229 

VI  EVERY  MAN  HAS  His  PRICE 233 

VII  ANOTHER  WORD  AS  TO  HETTY 243 

VIII  AGNES  TAKES  A  HAND 247 

IX  A  WORD  FROM  JOAN 256 

X  THE  STREET  CARNIVAL 262 

XI  FIRST  BLOOD 267 

XII  POOR  HETTY 275 

XIII  THE  MERCY  OF  THE  COURT 281 

BOOK  V 
DEFEAT 

I  SUNNY  SKIES 291 

II  A  FRIENDLY  RIVALRY 298 

III  POLITICS 308 

IV  A  CLOUD  ON  THE  MOON 315 

V  A  LOST  ALLY 325 

VI    KITE  TAKES  A  HAND 334 

VII    A  FEW  WORDS  TO  THE  WISE 343 

VIII    POOR  HETTY  AGAIN  .353 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  VI 
VICTORY 


CHAPTER 

I    THE  WEAVER  HOUSE  AGAIN 


II  A  BRIGHTER  CHAPTER  .........  375 

III  HETTY  HAS  HER  DAY    .........  384 

IV  WINT'S  RALLY    ...........  393 

V  SEEING  JOAN  HOME      .........  404 


BOOK  I 
THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 


THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

CHAPTER  I 

HARDISTON 

THERE  are  two  kinds  of  people:  small-town  folks,  and 
others.  The  others  are  inclined  to  think  of  the  people 
of  the  small  towns  as  men  and  women  of  narrow 
horizons  and  narrow  interests  and  a  vast  ignorance  of  such 
important  things  as  cocktails.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
people  who  dwell  in  the  little  mid-western  cities  and  towns 
are  your  real  cosmopolites.  They  know  their  own  country, 
east,  west,  north  and  south,  at  firsthand.  The  reason  for 
this  is  simple.  When  a  city  dweller  goes  to  the  country,  he 
is  careful  to  remain  a  city  dweller;  but  when  a  small-town 
man  goes  to  the  city,  he  becomes  a  city  man  for  as  long  as 
he  is  within  the  city's  gates.  Your  Bostonian  knows  Boston, 
has  a  smattering  of  New  York,  and  a  talking  acquaintance  with 
London.  Your  New  Yorker  knows  New  York  —  perhaps;  and 
he  desires  to  know  nothing  else.  But  the  men  and  women  of 
Hardiston,  for  example,  know  New  York,  and  they  know 
Boston  —  and  they  prefer  Hardiston  with  a  steadfast  and 
unshakable  preference. 

This  little  town  of  Hardiston  —  it  is  really  no  town  at  all, 
since  the  last  census  showed  it  with  a  population  above  the 
five  thousand  mark,  and  so  entitled  it  to  be  called  a  city  — 
stands  on  a  plateau  above  Salt  Creek,  and  it  is  overlooked  by 
a  circle  of  hills,  and  at  three  corners  of  the  town  the  gaunt, 
black  iron  furnaces  stand  sentry  at  the  gates.  The  hills,  of 
clay  and  iron  ore  and  conglomerate  rock,  are  pink  with 
apple  blossoms  in  the  spring;  and  in  the  fall  the  hardwood 
growth  which  clothes  them  where  the  orchards  have  not  yet 
spread  presents  a  dazzle  of  reds  and  yellows  that  blind  the 

3 


4  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

eye  with  their  splendor.  It  is  a  rich  and  fertile  country,  with 
well-watered  bottom  lands;  and  Hardiston  town  and  Hardiston 
county  have  a  past,  a  present  and  a  future. 

The  past  goes  back  to  the  Indians  and  beyond.  Salt  Creek 
won  its  name  by  no  mere  chance.  There  have  always  been 
traces  of  salt  in  its  water;  and  in  the  ancient  days,  the  Indians 
used  to  come  to  a  riffle  below  where  Hardiston  now  stands  and 
boil  the  water  for  this  salt.  There  was  a  big  encampment 
here;  and  the  tribes  came  from  all  over  Ohio,  and  from 
Kentucky,  and  farther,  too,  to  boil  salt  and  take  it  home  with 
them.  They  brought  Daniel  Boone  here  once;  and  you  may 
still  see,  to  the  north  of  Hardiston,  a  crumbling  precipice  of 
sand  conglomerate  over  which  Boone  is  said  to  have  jumped 
in  making  his  escape.  Also,  at  the  foot  of  that  sandy  bluff, 
you  may  dig  in  an  ash  bed  twenty  feet  deep,  and  find  the 
skeletons  of  Indian  braves,  buried  there  beneath  the  camp- 
fires,  with  perhaps  an  arrow  head  of  flint  between  their  ribs. 

When  the  whites  came  in,  they  took  up  the  making  of  salt 
where  the  Indians  left  off.  The  state  recognized  the  industry, 
and  chartered  it.  But  at  last  cheaper  salt  came  in,  and  the 
salt  boilers  found  themselves  with  their  occupation  gone.  So, 
seeking  about  them  for  work  for  their  hands  to  do,  they  dis 
covered  black  coal  in  the  hills,  and  rusty  brown  ore;  and 
they  digged  the  coal  and  the  ore  and  made  iron.  It  was  good 
iron;  none  better  in  the  world;  and  it  commanded  the  highest 
prices  in  any  market. 

The  county  was  all  undershot  with  coal;  the  hills  were 
crowned  with  iron.  Twenty  years  ago,  every  valley  in  the 
county  had  its  gaunt  tipple  and  its  pile  of  crumbling  slack; 
and  every  road  was  dotted  with  the  creaking,  rusty  wagons 
that  hauled  the  ores  to  the  furnaces  in  Hardiston.  To-day, 
much  of  the  coal  is  gone;  and  the  ore  has  vanished.  But  the 
furnaces  fetch  ore  from  Superior,  and  smelt  it  into  heavy  pigs 
of  iron;  and  their  roar  is  eternal  about  the  comfortable  little 
town. 

A  stranger,  coming  to  Hardiston,  is  inclined  to  think  the 
place  is  dead;  but  the  town  has  a  deceptive  vitality.  It  is 
true  the  brick  yard  is  gone,  and  the  occasional  imported  industry 


HARDISTON  5 

usually  dies  after  a  brief  and  uneventful  life.  It  is  true  the 
big  hotel  that  was,  ten  years  ago,  the  finest  in  a  dozen  counties, 
goes  now  from  bankruptcy  to  bankruptcy  without  a  struggle. 
And  Morgan  &  Robinson's  dry-goods  store  has  shrunk  from 
three  floors  to  one;  and  the  interurban  traction  that  used  to 
run  half-hourly  between  Hardiston  and  the  B.  &  0.  main  line 
has  given  place  to  a  dirty,  jerky  train  that  makes  two  trips 
a  day.  The  car  tracks  along  Broadway  and  Main  have  been 
ripped  up,  and  the  fine  brick  paving  on  these  streets  bids  fair 
to  endure  forever,  for  lack  of  traffic  that  would  give  it  whole 
some  wear  and  tear. 

But  the  town  is  not  dead;  it  is  only  sleeping.  You  may  see 
signs  of  the  awakening  in  the  apple  blossoms  on  the  hills. 
These  Hardiston  hills  produce  apples  of  a  surprising  excellence, 
and  some  day  the  Hardiston  apple  will  be  as  famous  as  the 
Hardiston  iron  was  in  the  past.  But  for  the  present  the  town 
sleeps,  a  gorged  slumber.  For  Hardiston  is  rich.  There  are 
three  banks,  and  each  has  more  than  a  million  in  deposits. 
Hardiston  folk  have  made  money;  they  have  built  themselves 
homes,  they  have  bought  themselves  automobiles,  they  have 
sent  their  boys  and  girls  to  college,  and  now  —  save  for  an 
occasional  trip  into  the  outer  world,  there  is  little  more  for 
them  to  do.  But  the  money  is  there;  it  feeds  the  prosperity  of 
three  or  four  moving-picture  houses,  half  a  dozen  soda  foun 
tains,  and  two  sporadic  theaters;  it  fattens  the  purses  of  a  street 
carnival  or  so  every  year,  and  it  delights  the  heart  of  every 
circus  that  comes  to  Hardiston  County. 

It  is  a  friendly  town,  a  gay  little  town.  People  make  their 
own  good  times,  and  many  of  them.  And  the  stranger  is  always 
made  welcome  within  their  gates.  Every  one  is  quite  honestly 
fond  of  Hardiston  and  proud  of  it.  When  you  go  there,  the 
Chamber  of  Commerce  does  not  buttonhole  you  and  demand 
a  factory.  That  is  not  Hardiston's  way;  and  besides,  there  is 
no  Chamber  of  Commerce.  No,  when  you  go  there,  Hardiston 
does  not  ask  you  to  do  something  for  Hardiston;  Hardiston 
tries  to  do  something  for  you.  For  instance,  it  invites  you  out 
to  the  house  for  supper.  And  you  go,  and  are  glad  you  went. 

Perhaps    it    is    because    of    this    taste   for    friendliness   that 


6  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Hardiston  loves  politics  so  ardently.  Politics,  after  all,  corrupt 
it  as  you  will,  is  the  art  of  making  and  keeping  friends. 
Hardiston  County,  and  the  Congressional  district  of  which  it 
is  the  heart,  form  one  of  the  prime  political  battle  grounds  of 
the  state.  Summer  and  winter,  year  in,  year  out,  politics  in 
Hardiston  goes  on.  The  county  officials  in  the  Court  House, 
when  their  work  is  out  of  the  way,  tilt  back  their  chairs  about 
the  most  capacious  cuspidor  and  talk  politics;  the  men  of 
the  town  gather  at  the  Smoke  House,  or  on  the  hotel  corner, 
and  talk  politics;  the  farmers,  driving  to  town,  stop  every 
man  they  meet  upon  the  road  and  canvass  the  political  situation. 
Even  the  women,  at  their  bridge  clubs  and  their  sewing  circles 
and  their  reading  clubs  —  Hardiston  is  full  of  clubs  —  talk 
politics  over  their  cards  or  their  sewing,  or  after  the  paper 
on  Browning  has  been  read. 

Hardiston  politics  is  very  like  politics  everywhere;  it  has 
not  much  to  do  with  platforms  and  principles,  and  it  has  a 
great  deal  to  do  with  men.  In  a  political  way,  Congressman 
Amos  Caretall  was  the  biggest  man  in  Hardiston  County.  And 
so  the  home-coming  of  Congressman  Caretall,  on  the  eve  of  the 
mayoralty  election,  was  a  matter  that  furnished  talk  for  all 
the  town. 


CHAPTER  II 

AMOS    CARETALL 

PETER  GERGUE  is  a  public  figure  in  Hardiston.  Every 
one  knows  him,  and  —  what  is  more  lo  the  point  —  he 
knows  every  one.  Not  only  in  Hardiston  town,  but  in 
Hardiston  County  is  Gergue  known.  He  is  an  attorney,  a 
notary,  a  justice  of  the  peace.  But  his  business  under  these 
heads  is  very  small.  It  has  always  been  small;  and  he  has 
never  made  any  great  effort  to  increase  it. 

He  is  a  man  of  medium  height,  thin  and  rusty  to  the  eye, 
with  a  drooping  black  mustache  and  black  hair  that  is  too 
long,  always  too  long,  even  when  he  has  just  emerged  from 
the  barber's  chair.  This  long,  black  hair  is  Gergue's  sole 
affectation.  It  is  his  custom,  when  the  barber  has  finished 
his  ministrations,  to  rumple  the  hair  on  the  back  of  his  head 
and  rub  it  with  his  fingers  until  it  is  matted  and  tangled  in  a 
fashion  to  defy  the  comb.  He  is  conscious  of  doing  this,  and 
has  been  known  to  explain  the  action.  And  his  explanation  is 
always  the  same. 

"  When  I  was  a  boy,"  he  says,  "  I  used  to  comb  the  top  of 
my  head  and  slick  it  down,  but  I  never  got  at  the  back  much. 
So  I  got  used  to  having  it  tangled;  and  now  I  don't  feel  right 
if  it's  smooth." 

So  he  keeps  it  religiously  tangled;  and  at  moments  of  deep 
thought,  his  fingers  stray  into  this  maze  as  though  searching 
for  his  medulla  oblongata  in  the  hope  of  finding  some  idea 
there. 

Gergue's  office  is  above  that  of  the  Building  and  Loan 
Company,  on  Main  Street,  opposite  the  Court  House.  There  are 
spider  webs  in  the  corners  and  on  the  windows;  there  is  dust 
on  everything.  The  floor  of  soft  wood  has  been  worn  till 

7 


8  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

every  knot  stands  up  like  a  wart,  and  every  nail  protrudes  its 
shining  head.  Against  one  wall,  there  is  a  wardrobe  of  walnut, 
higher  than  a  man.  Within  this  piece  some  law  books  are 
piled,  and  a  few  rusty  garments  hang.  In  the  summer,  moths 
nest  here;  in  the  winter  they  hibernate  in  their  nests.  The 
garments  have  not  been  disturbed  for  years,  and  now  their 
fabric  looks  more  like  mosquito  netting  than  honest  broadcloth 
and  serge. 

Gergue  has  an  old  kitchen  table,  covered  with  oilclojh,  near 
the  windows  that  overlook  the  street.  There  is  an  iron  inkwell 
on  this  table,  a  pen,  and  a  miscellaneous  litter  of  papers,  while 
at  one  side  of  the  table,  on  the  window  sill,  stands  his  notary's 
seal  and  a  disused  letter  press.  The  oilcloth  top  of  the  table 
has  worn  through  in  many  places,  and  the  soft  wood  beneath  is 
polished  to  a  not  unlovely  luster  by  constant  usage. 

Toward  train  time  of  the  day  Congressman  Caretall  was  to 
come  home,  Gergue  was  in  this  office  of  his.  James  T.  Hollow 
was  with  him,  sitting  stiffly  in  a  chair  that  was  too  narrow  for 
his  pudgy  bulk.  James  T.  Hollow  was  a  candidate  for  Mayor. 
Amos  Caretall  was  supporting  him.  And  Gergue,  as  Caretall's 
first  lieutenant,  had  asked  Hollow  to  go  with  him  to  the  train 
to  meet  the  Congressman.  Hollow  had  obeyed  the  summons, 
and  now  waited  Gergue's  pleasure.  He  was  smiling  with  a 
determined,  though  tremulous,  amiability. 

"  I've  always  aimed  to  do  what  was  right,"  he  explained 
hurriedly.  They  had  been  discussing  the  chance  of  his  election. 

Gergue  nodded  his  head.  "  That's  what  you  always  do,"  he 
agreed.  "  Trouble  is,  Chase  has  aimed  to  do  what  wa'n't  right, 
and  looks  like  he'd  get  away  with  it." 

The  other  flushed  painfully,  and  his  mouth  opened  as  though 
he  would  like  to  speak,  but  it  was  some  time  before  he 
managed  to  ask :  "  Is  that  —  the  reason  Congressman  Caretall 
is  coming  home?  " 

The  Court  House  clock,  across  the  street,  struck  four.  The 
train  was  due  at  four-twenty-two.  Gergue  rose  slowly.  "  Well, 
now,  let's  go  down  and  ask  him,"  he  invited. 

Hollow  assented  weakly.  "  Yes,  I  guess  that's  the  right  thing 
to  do." 


AMOS  CARETALL  9 

Gergue  looked  at  him  with  faint  impatience.  "  Why  do  you 
guess  it's  the  right  thing  to  do?  "  he  inquired. 

The  other  hesitated,  lifted  his  hands,  spread  them  helplesly. 
"Well  — isn't  it?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  dear!  "  said  Gergue  sweetly.     "  Well  —  come  on." 

Hollow  was  a  man  with  very  short  legs.  This  gave  him  an 
unfortunate,  pattering  appearance  when  he  walked  with  a  taller 
man;  and  as  he  and  Gergue  turned  down  Main  Street  toward 
the  station,  this  fact  was  commented  upon.  Some  of  the  com 
ments  were  direct,  some  subtle.  For  example,  one  of  a  group 
of  four  men  at  the  hotel  corner,  when  the  two  approached, 
looked  all  about  him  and  whistled  shrilly. 

"Hey,  doggie!     Hey,  doggie!     Heel!  "  he  called. 

James  T.  Hollow  was  not  without  perception.  He  blushed 
painfully.  But  Gergue  took  no  notice  of  the  jest,  for  as  they 
approached  the  group,  one  of  the  men  detached  himself  and 
came  to  meet  them. 

This  was  Winthrop  Chase  —  Winthrop  Chase,  Senior  —  the 
candidate  opposing  Hollow  for  the  mayoralty.  Hardiston  felt 
that  it  was  gracious  of  Chase  to  offer  himself  for  the  office, 
for  he  was  a  man  of  affairs,  chief  owner  of  the  biggest  furnace, 
a  coal  operator  of  importance  in  other  fields,  and  not  unknown 
in  state  political  circles.  He  was  an  erect  man,  so  erect  that 
he  leaned  backward,  and  with  a  peculiarly  healthy  look  about 
him.  He  had  a  strong  jaw  and  a  small,  governed  mouth.  His 
manner  was  courtly  and  gracious.  Some  considered  it  con 
descending. 

"  Good  morning,  Gergue,"  he  said  now.  "  Good  morning, 
Mr.  Hollow." 

"Howdo,"  Gergue  returned.  Hollow  was  more  loquacious. 
"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Chase." 

"  The  Congressman  comes  back  to-day?  "  Chase  asked. 

"  Yep,"  said  Gergue. 

"  We  ought  to  have  a  reception  for  him  at  the  station.  He 
has  made  a  name  for  himself  at  this  session." 

"  Always  had  a  name,"  Gergue  commented,  and  spat  care 
lessly,  so  close  to  Winthrop  Chase,  Senior's  polished  shoes  that 
the  great  man  moved  uneasily  to  one  side. 


10  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  I  suppose  he  is  coming  to  take  a  hand  in  the  mayoralty 
campaign,"  said  Chase  urbanely.  He  could  afford  to  be  urbane. 

"  He  didn't  say,"  Gergue  declared. 

"  I'm  sorry  we're  on  opposite  sides  of  the  fence  in  this 
squabble.  Tell  him  he  and  I  must  work  together  hereafter." 

"You  tell  him." 

Chase  laughed.  "  I  believe  he  will  see  it  —  without  being 
told,"  he  said  loudly,  and  the  three  men  at  his  back  smiled. 
"  He  will,  no  doubt,  find  some  change  in  Hardiston  affairs." 

"  He  will  if  there  is  any." 

"  Perhaps  even  in  the  district.  Though  of  course  he  does 
not  have  to  seek  reelection  this  fall." 

"  No." 

"  Still  — " 

Gergue  interrupted  maliciously :  "  By  th'  way,  how's 
Wint?  " 

The  question  had  a  curious  effect  upon  Chase.  It  surprised 
him,  it  seemed  to  embarrass  him,  and  it  certainly  angered  him. 
He  opened  his  mouth  to  speak.  "  He  — " 

But  before  he  could  go  on,  Gergue  interposed :  "  I  hear 
Columbus  would've  gone  dry  in  spite  of  itself,  if  they  hadn't 
sent  him  home  from  State  when  they  did."  And  he  departed 
with  the  honors  of  war,  leaving  Chase  to  sputter  angrily  into  the 
sympathetic  ears  of  his  companions.  When  he  and  Hollow 
were  half  a  block  away,  Gergue  permitted  himself  to  smile. 
Then  he  frowned  and  looked  at  Hollow.  "  Why  don't  you  talk 
up  to  him,  Jim?  "  he  asked  disgustedly. 

"I  —  always  try  to  do  what  is  right,  Peter.  I'd  like  to,  I 
really  would." 

"Would  you,  now?  "  Gergue  echoed  mockingly. 

"Yes,  I  really  would,"  insisted  James  T.  Hollow. 

"  Well,  all  right  then,"  said  Gergue  affably.    "  Le's  go  along." 

They  went  along,  down  shaded  lower  Main  Street,  and  took 
at  length  the  left-hand  turn  that  led  toward  the  station.  Gergue 
walked  in  silence,  and  Hollow,  after  a  few  futile  efforts  at  con 
versation,  gave  it  up  and  pattered  at  the  taller  man's  side  with 
out  speaking.  Gergue  seemed  to  be  thinking,  thinking  hard. 

A  branch  line  connects  Hardiston  with  the  main  line  of  the 


AMOS  CARETALL  11 

B.  &  0.  to  Washington.  Two  trains  a  day  traverse  this  branch 
in  each  direction.  One  of  these  trains  is  called  the  Mail;  the 
other  the  Accommodation;  but  the  source  of  these  titles  is 
not  apparent,  for  both  trains  carry  mail,  and  both  are  most 
accommodating.  Perhaps  the  Accommodation  is  more  so  than 
the  Mail,  for  at  times  it  has  a  freight  car  attached  between 
tender  and  baggage  car,  and  this  is  an  indignity  which  the  Mail 
never  suffers. 

The  station  at  Hardiston  is  a  three-room  structure  of  imita 
tion  hollow  tiles.  That  is  to  say,  it  is  built  of  wood  sheathed 
with  tin  which  is  stamped  in  the  likeness  of  tiles.  These  tin 
walls  have  an  uncanny  faculty  for  keeping  the  rooms  inside 
the  station  at  fever  heat,  summer  and  winter. 

One  of  these  rooms  is  the  Men's  Waiting  Room;  another  is 
for  feminine  patrons  of  the  road;  and  between  the  two  is  the 
ticket  office  and  dispatcher's  room,  with  telegraph  instruments 
clattering  on  a  table  in  the  bay  window  at  the  front. 

The  station  agent  is  a  busy  man,  with  three  or  four  hard- 
worked  assistants;  for  all  the  supplies  for  one  of  the  big 
furnaces  come  in  over  this  branch,  and  the  furnace's  product 
goes  out  by  the  same  route.  The  furnace  itself  towers  above 
the  very  station,  great  ore  piles  spraddling  over  acres  of  ground 
waiting  for  the  traveling  crane  that  scoops  them  and  carries  the 
ore  to  the  fires. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  station,  across  the  street,  there  are 
two  buildings  with  ornate  fronts  —  and  locked  doors.  They 
proclaim  themselves  as  buildings  with  a  past  —  a  bibulous  past. 
County  local  option  was  their  ruin,  county  local  option  locked 
their  doors  and  stripped  their  shelves  and  spread  dust  upon 
their  bars.  They  are  ugly  things,  eyesores,  specters  of  shame. 
Whatever  may  be  said  for  the  wares  they  dispense,  there  is 
nothing  more  hideous  than  a  saloon. 

Gergue  and  Hollow  crossed  the  street  at  a  diagonal,  past 
these  locked  saloons,  to  the  station  platform.  They  found  on 
the  platform  a  familiar  throng.  Hardiston  was  the  county 
seat,  and  served  as  market  place  for  the  southern  half  of  the 
county.  Many  people  came  and  went  daily  on  the  dirty, 
rattling,  uncomfortable  trains;  and  this,  the  afternoon  train, 


12  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

always  picked  up  a  score  or  so  of  passengers  southward 
bound. 

In  addition  to  these  travelers,  there  were  folk  at  the  station 
to  meet  every  incoming  passenger;  for  Hardiston  still  meets 
people  at  the  train.  Guests,  home-comers,  even  the  commercial 
travelers  find  a  welcome  waiting.  Every  one  in  the  neighbor 
hood  stops  at  the  station  at  train  time  to  pick  up  matters  for 
gossip. 

Gergue  made  it  his  custom  to  meet  a  train  whenever  no 
more  important  matter  occupied  his  time;  for  by  so  doing  he 
saw  many  men  of  the  county  whom  he  would  not  otherwise 
have  seen,  and  renewed  acquaintances  that  would  otherwise 
have  languished.  He  was,  as  it  were,  a  professional  meeter  of 
trains,  like  the  editors  of  the  three  weekly  papers,  and  the  bus 
men  from  the  hotels.  He  left  Hollow  at  one  end  of  the  plat 
form,  while  he  traversed  its  length,  exchanging  a  word  with 
every  one,  observing,  inquiring,  cultivating. 

On  this  business,  he  was  fifty  yards  away  from  Hollow 
when  the  Caretall  touring  car  whirled  down  the  street  and 
stopped  beside  the  platform.  Hollow  took  off  his  hat  in 
greeting,  and  the  four  young  people  in  the  car  acknowledged 
the  salutation  carelessly. 

Agnes  Caretall  was  driving,  with  Jack  Routt  beside  her  in  the 
front  seat,  and  Wint  Chase  and  Joan  Arnold  in  the  tonneau. 
They  remained  in  the  car,  the  two  in  front  turning  half  around 
in  their  seats  to  talk  with  those  behind.  Agnes  Caretall  did 
most  of  the  talking.  She  was  a  gay  little  thing,  with  fair 
hair  and  laughing  eyes  and  flying  tongue.  Joan  Arnold  was 
darker,  brown  hair,  eyes  almost  black.  She  was  quiet,  with 
a  poise  in  sharp  contrast  to  Agnes'  vivacity.  Routt  and  Wint 
Chase  were  just  average  young  men,  pleasant  enough  in  appear 
ance.  Routt  was  dark;  Wint  had  a  fair  skin,  his  father's  strong 
jaw,  eyes  that  inclined  at  times  to  sulky  anger,  and  a  head  of 
crisp  hair  that  was  brown,  with  golden  flashes  when  the  sun 
touched  it.  There  was  a  healthy  color  in  his  cheeks,  but  his 
eyes  were  reddened,  and  there  were  faint  pouches  beneath 
them.  While  they  waited  for  the  train,  he  rolled  a  cigarette, 


AMOS  CARETALL  13 

fizzling  his  first  attempt  because  his  hands  were  faintly 
tremulous.  Routt  laughed  at  him  for  this. 

"You're  shaky,  Wint,"  he  jested.  "Better  take  a  tailor- 
made  one." 

And  he  offered  the  other  his  cigarette  case;  but  Wint  shook 
his  head  stubbornly,  tried  again,  and  this  time  succeeded  in 
rolling  a  passable  cigarette,  which  he  lighted  eagerly. 

Peter  Gergue,  coming  back  along  the  platform,  saw  the  four 
in  the  car  and  came  toward  them.  He  caught  Joan  Arnold's 
eyes  and  took  off  his  hat,  and  she  smiled  a  greeting;  and  he 
came  and  stood  beside  the  car,  exchanging  sallies  awkwardly 
with  Agnes  Caretall  and  with  Routt. 

When  the  attention  of  these  two  was  concentrated,  for  a 
moment,  upon  each  other,  he  asked  Joan :  "  Is  anything  wrong, 
Miss  Arnold?  You  look  worried.  You  hadn't  ought  to  look 
worried,  ever." 

She  laughed.  "  Why,  no,  of  course  not.  I  —  must  have  been 
thinking.  I  didn't  know." 

"  Thinking  about  what?  " 

"  I  don't  remember." 

Wint  had  climbed  out  of  the  car  and  was  talking  to  some  one 
on  the  platform  a  dozen  feet  away.  Gergue  looked  toward  him, 
then  back  to  Joan.  But  he  said  no  more. 

"  Isn't  the  train  late?  "  Agnes  asked,  forsaking  Routt 
abruptly. 

Gergue  nodded.  "  Ten  minutes.  Dan  says  they  got  a  hot 
box,  or  something,  up  above  the  Crossroads." 

Agnes  pouted.     "  They're  always  late." 

"  They're  whistling  now,"  Gergue  assured  her,  and  a  moment 
later  every  one  heard  the  distant  blast.  "  At  the  crossing  beyond 
the  cemetery,"  Gergue  supplemented.  "  Be  here  right  away." 
And  he  turned  back  to  the  crowd. 

A  moment  later,  they  heard  the  whistle  again,  this  time  where 
the  B.  &  0.  and  D.  T.  &  I.  crossed;  and  after  a  further  interval, 
the  train  came  in  sight,  rounding  the  last  curve  into  the 
station.  Agnes  jumped  out  of  the  car,  touching  Routt's 
extended  hand  when  he  sought  to  assist  her;  and  then  the 


14  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

engine  roared  and  racketed  past,  vomiting  sparks  and  cinders 
over  them  all. 

The  rear  end  of  the  last  car  was  opposite  the  automobile 
when  the  train  stopped;  and  Agnes  and  Gergue  pushed  that 
way;  for  Amos  Caretall  always  got  off  at  the  rear  end  of  a 
train.  "  If  you  do  that  you  can't  get  run  over  —  unless  she 
backs,"  he  was  accustomed  to  explain.  The  two  reached  the 
steps  just  as  the  Congressman  emerged  from  the  car,  and  Agnes 
flew  up  to  meet  him  so  that  her  arms  were  around  his  neck 
when  he  stepped  down  to  the  platform.  He  was  a  stocky  man 
of  middle  height  with  sandy  hair,  shrewd,  squinting  eyes,  and 
a  habit  of  holding  his  head  on  one  side  as  though  he  suffered 
from  that  malady  called  stiff  neck. 

He  hugged  Agnes  close,  affectionately,  for  an  instant,  then 
held  her  away  from  him  with  both  hands  and  surveyed  her. 
"  You  sure  look  good,  Agnes,"  he  told  her,  and  hugged  her 
again. 

She  slipped  her  hand  through  his  arm.  "  We  came  down  to 
get  you,"  she  explained.  "  Come  along  —  quick.  These  cin 
ders  are  awful." 

He  laughed.  "  In  a  minute.  Hello,  Peter.  Hello,  Jim."  He 
shook  hands  with  Gergue  and  with  Hollow.  "  Looking  for 
somebody,  Peter?  " 

"Just  come  down  to  see  you  come  in." 

"  Well  — "     The  Congressman  grinned  amiably.     "  I'm  in." 

"  We  wish  to  welcome  you  home,  Congressman,"  said  James 
T.  Hollow. 

"Thanks,   Jim." 

The  three  men  were  silent  for  a  moment.  The  situation  had 
its  interesting  side.  When  Gergue  and  Hollow  had  been  alone 
together,  Gergue  was  the  dominant  figure  of  the  two.  Gergue 
seemed  then  like  a  superman,  calm,  assured,  at  ease;  and 
Hollow,  beside  Gergue,  had  been  almost  pathetically  docile. 

Now,  however,  in  the  presence  of  the  Congressman,  Gergue 
seemed  to  shrink  to  Hollow's  stature.  He  and  Hollow  were 
both  mere  creatures,  Hollow  if  anything  the  stronger  of  the 
two.  And  Amos  Caretall  towered  head  and  shoulders  above 
them  both. 


AMOS  CARETALL  15 

It  was  the  Congressman  who  broke  the  silence.  "  All  right," 
he  said.  "  Drop  in  any  time  —  both  of  you."  And  with  his 
grip  in  one  hand  and  Agnes  on  the  other  arm,  he  crossed  the 
platform  to  the  car. 

Routt  and  Joan  and  Wint  were  there.  He  greeted  them  with 
comfortable  affection,  and  surveyed  them  with  keen  and 
appraising  eyes.  "  Climb  in,"  he  invited.  "  Glad  to  see 
everybody." 

Agnes  and  Routt  took  the  front  seat  again,  and  Joan  sat 
between  Wint  and  the  Congressman  behind.  Just  before  the 
car  started,  Amos  Caretall  leaned  across  to  ask  Wint: 

"Well,  young  man  —  how's  your  father?  " 

Wint's   eyes   burned    sulkily.     "About   as    usual,"   he   said. 

The  engine  roared,  they  turned  up  the  street;  and  the 
Congressman  turned  to  wave  his  hand  to  Gergue  and  Hollow  on 
the  platform. 


CHAPTER  III 

WINT   CHASE 

A10S  CARETALL'S  home  was  not  a  pretentious  affair. 
He  lived  in  a  house  that  had  not  been  built  as  other 
houses  are;  it  had,  like  Topsy,  "just  growed."  It 
began  as  a  one-story,  four-room  brick  structure,  and  spread 
in  wings  and  "  ells  "  and  upper  stories  until  now  it  numbered 
ten  rooms  and  was  a  thing  fearful  and  wonderful  to  behold. 
In  these  ten  rooms,  Agnes  and  her  father  and  old  Maria  Hale, 
the  darky  who  cooked  for  them  and  looked  after  them,  rattled 
around  in  a  somewhat  lonely  fashion.  For  Mrs.  Caretall  was 
ten  years  dead,  and  the  two  Caretall  boys  had  gone  away  to 
college  and  afterward  had  builded  homes  of  their  own  in  other 
regions. 

Amos  Caretall  was  not  rich;  but  he  was  well  off.  He  had 
made  his  money  in  coal,  and  when  the  visible  supply  of  coal 
began  to  peter  out,  he  had  looked  into  politics,  gone  to  the 
state  legislature  for  two  terms,  and  then  to  Congress.  In 
Congress  he  had  done  well.  The  Hardiston  district  forgot, 
where  he  was  concerned,  the  old  rule  that  a  Congressman  shall 
have  but  two  terms.  They  sent  him  back  again  and  again.  He 
was  now  in  his  fifth  term,  and  his  power  at  home  and  abroad 
was  growing. 

His  most  valuable  quality  was  imagination.  He  was  not 
an  able  man;  he  knew  little  about  political  economy,  national 
finance,  sociology,  the  science  of  government.  He  knew  little 
and  cared  less.  For  by  virtue  of  a  keen  imagination,  he  was 
able  to  construct  in  his  own  mind  hypothetical  situations,  and 
then  hire  experts  to  meet  them  for  him.  Peter  Gergue  was 
one  of  these  experts.  Gergue's  field  was  human  nature  and 
Hardiston  County.  He  knew  every  one  in  the  county,  and  he 
had  an  uncanny  faculty  for  predicting  how  a  man  would  react 

18 


WINT  CHASE  17 

to  given  circumstances.  This  faculty  extended  to  men  in  the 
mass,  and  enabled  him  to  predict  the  political  effect  of  a  given 
course  of  action  with  surprising  accuracy.  Amos  Caretall  had 
learned  to  take  Gergue's  advice  blindly.  His  home-coming 
at  this  time,  for  example,  was  in  response  to  Gergue's  message 
of  a  week  previous.  That  message  had  been  brief. 

"  If  Chase  is  elected  Mayor,  he'll  beat  you  for  the  House  next 
year,"  Gergue  had  written. 

Caretall  wired:  "  I'm  coming  home."     And  he  came. 

But  there  was  no  trace  of  concern  in  his  amiable  countenance 
as  they  rode  to  his  home  now.  He  joked  Joan  Arnold  into 
gayety,  laughed  Wint  Chase  out  of  his  sulkiness,  and  pinched 
his  daughter's  cheek  until  she  threatened  to  ditch  the  car  if 
he  kept  it  up.  Thus,  when  they  stopped  before  the  house, 
every  one  was  in  good  humor. 

They  stopped,  and  Wint  Chase  was  the  first  to  alight.  A 
muffled  bark  greeted  him  from  the  house,  and  he  laughed  and 
ran  up  the  walk  and  opened  the  door.  A  wiry,  tan-colored 
dog  rushed  out  and  engulfed  him;  Muldoon,  an  Irish  terrier 
of  parts,  who  had  been  left  behind  because  he  would  neither 
'ride  in  an  automobile  nor  calmly  suffer  his  master  to  do  so. 
Muldoon  was  one  creature  whom  Wint  unreservedly  loved; 
and  Muldoon  returned  the  affection.  Master  and  dog,  the 
first  transports  over,  came  down  the  walk  again  as  the  others 
climbed  from  the  car. 

Amos  Caretall  was  urging  them  all  to  come  in.  Jack  Routt 
said  he  would;  but  Joan  shook  her  head.  "I  can't,"  she 
laughed.  "  I  promised  mother  to  bring  home  some  bread." 

"  I'll  take  it  out  in  the  car,"  Agnes  pleaded.     "  Please  .  .  ." 

Joan  stuck  to  her  guns.  Agnes  pouted.  Wint  did  not  commit 
himself;  he  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  he  would  go 
with  Joan.  She  turned  to  him.  "  You  stay,  Wint!  " 

The  old  sulky  light  flamed  in  his  eyes  again.  "  No  —  I'm 
going  with  you." 

They  left  the  others,  amid  a  little  flurry  of  farewells  from 
Agnes,  and  turned  uptown.  Muldoon  circled  them  madly, 
running  at  top  speed  in  a  desperate  effort  to  work  off  the 
spirits  generated  during  his  confinement.  Joan  laughed  at  the 


18  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

dog,  whistled  him  to  her,  stooped  to  tug  at  his  ears  affection 
ately.  "You're  full  of  it,  aren't  you,  Muldoon?  " 

He  whined  aloud  in  his  desperate  desire  to  answer  her,  then 
darted  away  again.  She  straightened  and  they  went  on,  the 
girl  still  smiling.  Wint  looked  at  her  once,  and  then  again, 
and  then  he,  too,  smiled  —  at  her  and  at  the  dog. 

"  He's  a  clown,"  he  said. 

She  nodded.     "  He's  a  fine  dog,  Wint." 

"  He's  a  dog  of  sense.  He  thinks  well  of  you."  He  laughed. 
"  I'll  give  him  to  you  some  day." 

She  looked  up  at  him  seriously,  understanding  in  her  eyes. 
"  I  hope  so,  Wint,"  she  said. 

There  was  something  besides  understanding  in  her  eyes,  some 
thing  faintly  accusing ;  and  he  flushed  and  said  hotly :  "  Don't 
look  at  me  like  that.  Please.  I'm  —  I  mean  to  —  make  it  come 
true." 

"  I  hope  so,  Wint,"  she  said  again. 

They  spoke  no  more  for  a  time.  Presently  she  stopped  at 
the  bakery  and  they  went  in  together.  The  sweet  odor  of  hot 
bread  and  sugar  and  spice  clouded  about  them  as  he  opened  the 
door.  A  round  little  woman  greeted  them. 

"Is  your  cream  bread  all  gone,  Mrs.  Mueller?  "  Joan  asked. 

"  No.     Not  yet.     How  many  loaves?  " 

"Two,  please." 

The  little  woman  brought  two  loaves,  still  soft  from  the  great 
ovens  and  still  warm,  and  wrapped  them  gently,  careful  not 
to  bruise  them.  She  handed  the  package  to  Joan.  Wint  tried 
to  take  it,  but  Joan  shook  her  head,  laughing  at  him.  "  Last 
time  you  mashed  them  flat,"  she  said ;  "  I'll  carry  them." 

"  I'll  be  careful,"  he  promised,  and  took  the  package  from 
her  with  calm  mastery,  a  mastery  to  which  she  yielded  with  a 
faint  tremor  of  happiness.  They  continued  more  swiftly  on 
their  way. 

Presently  she  asked:  "How  does  the  work  go?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Badly.  I've  no  —  knack  for  it.  And 
father  and  I  weren't  meant  to  pull  in  double  harness." 

"  You  must  learn  to,  Wint.     Give  him  a  chance." 


WINT  CHASE  19 

He  nodded.  "  But  we  —  grate  on  each  other.  He  fires  up 
at  the  least  mistake." 

"  You've  been  hard  on  his  patience." 

He   stiffened    faintly.     "Possibly." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Now  don't  sulk,  Wint. 
Please." 

"  I'm  not  sulking." 

"  You're  too  quick  on  the  trigger.  You  get  angry  at  the  least 
thing."  She  laughed  softly,  in  a  way  that  robbed  her  words  of 
sting.  "Wint,  you're  as  proud  as  a  peacock,  and  as  stubborn 
as  a  mule.  As  soon  as  any  one  criticizes  you  for  doing  a 
thing  —  you  go  right  off  and  do  it  again.  That's  no  way  to 
do,  Wint." 

He  made  no  comment,  and  when  she  looked  at  him,  she 
saw  that  his  face  was  set  and  hard,  and  she  laid  a  hand  on  his 
arm.  "Wint  —  don't  you  think  I'm  a  —  good  friend  of 

O     99 

yours  i 

"  If  you're  not  more  than  that,  Joan  —  I'm  through."  His 
eyes  searched  hers;  she  met  his  bravely. 

"I  am  —  more  than  that,  Wint.  So  you  must  let  me  tell 
you  things  frankly.  Wint,  you  must  learn  to  see  that  when 
people  criticize  you,  or  advise  you,  it's  more  often  than  not 
because  they  really  wish  you  well.  Most  people  wish  other 
people  well,  Wint." 

"  That  has  not  been  my  experience." 

She  shook  his  arm,  laughing.  "Wint!  Don't  be  silly! 
You  talk  like  a  disappointed  man  —  when  you  ought  to  talk 
like  a  fine,  strong,  hopeful  one." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  hers,  where  it  rested  in  the  crook  of  his 
arm.  "  You're  a  big-heart,  Joan.  You  like  every  one,  and  trust 
them  and  every  one  is  good  to  you.  You  —  can't  get  my  view 
point." 

"  I  can  too,  Wint.  For  you  haven't  any  viewpoint.  You're 
just  the  plaything  of  a  little  devil  of  perversity  that  makes  you 
do  things  you  know  you  —  oughtn't  to  do  —  just  to  prove  that 
you  can." 

They  came,  abruptly,  to  her  gate.     She  paused  to  say  good-by. 


20  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

His  eyes  were  angry;  but  he  said  quietly:  "May  I  come  to 
night?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "Not  every  night,  Wint.  To 
morrow?  " 

"Please?" 

"I  — no,  Wint." 

He  straightened  stiffly.  "Very  well.  Good  night."  He 
lifted  his  hat  and  stalked  away. 

Joan  looked  after  him  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  disturbed, 
unhappy;  then  she  smiled  a  tender  little  smile,  as  a  mother 
smiles  at  a  wayward  boy,  and  turned  into  the  house. 

At  the  corner,  Wint  looked  back.  She  was  gone.  He  went 
on  toward  his  own  home,  Muldoon  at  his  heels,  in  a  hot  surge 
of  rebellion.  Halfway  home,  he  asked  himself  what  it  was 
that  made  him  rebellious,  angry;  and  when  he  could  find  no 
reasonable  answer  to  this  question,  he  became  more  angry  than 
ever.  He  was  angry  at  himself;  but  he  convinced  himself  that 
he  was  angry  at  others.  .  .  . 

Winthrop  Chase,  Senior,  had  built  a  home  for  himself  a 
dozen  years  before,  in  the  first  rush  of  great  wealth  from  the 
furnace.  It  was  a  monumental  house,  of  red,  pressed  brick, 
with  a  slate  roof  and  a  fence  of  iron  pickets  around  the  yard. 
It  had  been,  when  he  built  it,  the  finest  house  in  town.  Now, 
however,  its  supremacy  was  challenged  by  a  dozen  others,  and 
the  elder  Chase  had  half  decided  to  tear  it  down  and  build 
another  that  would  defy  competition.  Mrs.  Chase  opposed 
this,  gently  and  half-heartedly.  She  thought  they  were  very 
comfortable. 

But  it  was  a  losing  fight,  and  she  knew  it.  Her  husband 
was  accustomed  to  have  his  way.  He  would  have  it  in  the  end. 

Wint  pushed  open  the  iron  gate  —  it  dragged  on  its  hinges 
so  that  it  had  worn  a  deep  groove  in  the  stone  paving  that  led 
to  the  porch  —  and  closed  it  behind  him,  and  went  up  to  the 
door.  He  opened  it  and  went  in;  and  in  the  dim  light  of  the 
hall  he  encountered  a  girl.  For  an  instant,  he  failed  to  recog 
nize  her;  then: 

"  Why,  hello  —  Hetty,"  he  said. 

"  Hello,  Wint." 


WINT  CHASE  21 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?  "  He  dropped  his  hat  on  the 
hall  bench. 

"  I've  come  to  work  for  your  mother."  She  hesitated. 
"  Supper's  ready.  They're  sitting  down." 

"Oh!  "  He  looked  at  Hetty  again.  They  had  been  school 
mates.  Her  seat  had  been  just  in  front  of  his  one  year.  He 
remembered,  with  sudden  vividness,  the  day  he  stuck  chewing 
gum  in  her  hair.  Her  hair  was  red;  a  pleasant,  dark  red;  and 
it  was  very  luxuriant.  "  Oh  —  all  right,"  he  said,  and  went 
into  the  dining  room.  His  father  and  mother  were  at  the  table. 
"  I  see  you've  got  a  girl,  mother,"  he  said. 

«  Yes  —  I've  got  Hetty  Morfee."  Mrs.  Chase  sighed.  "  I've 
had  the  most  awful  time,  Wint.  I  do  hope  she  stays.  Girls 
are  terrible  hard  to  get,  in  this  town.  They — " 

Mrs.  Chase  was  loquacious.  Her  speeches  were  never  fin 
ished.  She  was  always  interrupted  in  mid-career.  Otherwise, 
she  would  have  talked  on  endlessly. 

"  That  steak  looks  as  though  she  could  cook,"  said  Wint. 
"  Give  me  some." 


CHAPTER  IV 

JACK   ROUTT 

ONE  of  Mrs.  Chase's  difficulties  with  hired  girls  was  that 
Winthrop  Chase,  Senior,  liked  style  with  his  meals. 
Mr.  Chase  was  no  provincial.     He  had  traveled;  he 
had  lived  at  good  hotels;  he  knew  New  York,  Columbus,  Cleve 
land,  Cincinnati.     He  had  been  a  guest  at  fine  homes.     He  knew 
what  was  what. 

"  It  adds  tone  to  a  repast,"  he  would  tell  his  wife,  over  and 
over.  "  It  adds  tone  to  a  repast.  A  neatly  dressed  maidserv 
ant,  in  apron  and  cap,  handing  your  dishes  around.  I  tell 
you,  Margaret,  it  gives  that  —  that  —  that  style.  .  .  ." 

"  I  know  it,  Winthrop,"  Mrs.  Chase  always  agreed.  "  I'd  like 
to  have  it  so,  as  much  as  you  would.  Land  knows  I've  tried. 
I've  trained,  and  I've  trained;  but  you  can't  expect  a  girl  to  do 
everything  for  two  dollars  a  week,  or  even  three.  Why,  Mrs. 
Hullis  had—" 

"  Well,  pay  more,  then.  Pay  more.  Five,  or  ten  dollars.  I 
make  money  enough.  I  surely  make  money  enough,  Margaret, 
to  have  comfort  and  —  and  style  in  my  own  home." 

"  You  can't  get  a  girl  in  Hardiston  that's  worth  more  than  three 
dollars,"  Mrs.  Chase  insisted.  "  They  come  and  they  go,  and 
they're  always  getting  married,  and  — " 

Mr.  Chase  always  carved  the  meats  at  his  own  table.  He 
took  pride  in  his  carving.  When  Wint  appeared  now,  he  looked 
up  with  a  hostile  eye,  at  the  same  time  lifting  the  carving  knife 
and  fork.  "  You're  late,  young  man." 

"Am  I?"  said  Wint  stiffly. 

"  The  dinner  hour  in  this  house  is  five-thirty.  If  you  wish 
to  have  your  meals  here,  you  would  do  well  to  observe  that 
fact  and  regulate  your  movements  in  accordance." 

22 


JACK  ROUTT  23 

"  Oh,  give  the  boy  his  supper,"  Mrs.  Chase  urged.  "  You  get 
me  all  mixed  up,  calling  supper  dinner  and  dinner  lunch  that 
way,  Winthrop.  Wint,  don't  you  mind  what  your  father  says. 
He—" 

"  Margaret,"  said  Mr.  Chase  sternly,  "  I  wish  you  would  — " 

"  I  went  to  the  station  to  meet  Caretall,"  said  Wint  slowly. 
"  Sorry  to  be  late.  But  — " 

"Caretall?"  his  father  echoed  sharply.     "You—" 

"  Now,  Wint  —  don't  aggravate  your  father,"  Mrs.  Chase 
urged.  "  You  will  drive  me  to  — " 

"  Hetty,  pass  my  son's  plate,"  directed  the  elder  Chase,  dis 
covering  the  girl  in  the  doorway.  "  Your  place  is  in  the 
kitchen  while  the  meals  are  being  served,  not  in  the  hall." 

"  All  right,"  said  Hetty  cheerfully,  and  she  took  Wint's  plate 
and  went  around  the  table  to  his  father's  side.  Thus  relieved 
of  the  elder  Chase's  scrutiny,  she  winked  lightly  at  Wint  and 
smiled.  He  made  no  response.  A  moment  later,  she  set  his 
plate  before  him,  and  departed  toward  the  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Chase  began  at  once  to  talk.  Her  eating  did  not  seem 
to  interfere  with  the  gently  querulous  stream  of  her  conversa 
tion.  She  spoke  of  many  things.  Housekeeping  cares,  the 
perplexities  and  annoyances  of  the  day,  the  acquisition  of  Hetty, 
her  hope  that  Hetty  would  prove  a  good  girl,  a  good  cook,  a 
good  housemaid.  "  She's  not  going  to  go  home  at  night, 
either,"  she  explained.  "  When  girls  go  home  at  night,  they're 
never  here  in  time  to  get  breakfast.  When  I  have  a  girl,  I 
want  her  in  the  house,  so's  I  can  see  she  gets  up.  She  — " 

The  elder  Chase  interrupted  obliviously.  He  had  been  study 
ing  his  son.  "  Wint,  have  you  been  drinking  to-day?  "  he 
demanded. 

Wint  looked  up  quickly,  a  retort  on  his  lips.  But  he  checked 
it,  and  instead  said  quietly: 

"  No." 

"  Oh,  Wint,"  Mrs.  Chase  exclaimed,  "  you  ain't  going  to  do 
any  more  of  that,  are  you,  son?  You — " 

"  I'm  keeping  my  eye  on  you,  young  man,"  interrupted  her 
husband.  "You  left  the  office  early  to-day.  Who  gave  you 
permission?  " 


24  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  The  work  was  done." 

"The  work   is  never   done." 

"You  left  before  I  did." 

The  elder  Chase's  eyes  flashed.  "  My  movements  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  Your  place  is  at  the  office  till  four- 
thirty  every  day.  Don't  imagine,  because  you're  my  son,  you'll 
receive  any  favoritism." 

"  It  seems  to  work  the  other  way,"  said  Wint. 

"  It  does  work  the  other  way.  You're  on  trial,  guilty  till 
proved  innocent,  worthless  till  proved  otherwise.  Some 
fathers  ...  A  boy  expelled  from  college  for  drunken 
ness  .  .  .  You're  lucky  that  I  am  so  lenient  with  you,  young 


man." 


"Ami?" 

"  Now,  Wint,"  his  mother  interjected.  "  Don't  you  aggravate 
your  father.  Goodness  knows  it's  hard  enough  to  get  along 
with  him  — " 

"Margaret!" 

"Well,  I  mean,  you  oughtn't  to—" 

Wint  rose  abruptly.  "Nagging  never  did  any  good,"  he 
said.  "  I  mean  to  —  do  my  part."  He  flamed  suddenly. 
"But  —  for  Heaven's  sake  —  don't  talk  me  to  death." 

He  went  out,  up  to  his  room.  He  was  trembling  with 
humiliated  resentment.  In  his  room  he  stood  for  a  moment 
before  the  mirror,  looking  at  his  image  in  the  glass,  frowning 
sullenly.  "Talk!  Talk!  Talk!  "  he  exclaimed  hotly.  "Al 
ways  talk!  "  He  went  into  the  bathroom,  splashed  cold  water 
into  his  face,  went  out  again  and  down  the  stairs.  He  took  his 
hat.  His  mother  called,  from  the  dining  room: 

"Wint  —  there's  ice  cream!     Don't  you — " 

"  No  —  thanks,"  he  said.     "  I'm  going  uptown." 

He  closed  the  door  upon  their  protests,  and  went  down  to 
the  street  and  turned  toward  the  town. 

His  way  led  past  Joan's  house.  He  paused  at  her  gate  for  a 
moment,  hesitant,  frowning,  miserable,  lonely.  Then  he  went 
on. 

Almost  every  one  goes  uptown  in  Hardiston  at  night.     The 


JACK  ROUTT  25 

seven-fifteen  train,  bringing  mail,  is  one  excuse.  The  moving 
pictures  are  an  allurement.  The  streets  are  better  filled  in 
early  evening  than  at  any  other  time  of  the  day.  Wint  began 
presently  to  meet  acquaintances.  At  the  hotel,  he  encountered 
Jack  Routt.  Routt  greeted  him  eagerly. 

"Wint!     Hello  there!     Care  for  a  game  of  billiards?  " 

"  I'd  just  as  soon." 

"  Come  along,  then." 

They  went  through  the  hotel  office,  down  three  steps,  and  into 
the  pool  room.  There  were  three  tables,  two  for  pool  and 
one  for  billiards.  A  game  of  Kelly  pool  was  in  progress  at 
one  table,  but  the  billiard  table  was  free.  They  chalked  their 
cues. 

"  Half  a  dollar?  "  Routt  challenged. 

Wint  nodded.     "All  right." 

Routt  won  the  draw  and  shot  first.  The  game  went  jerkily 
forward.  Neither  was  an  expert  player.  A  run  of  ten  was 
an  event.  Wint  played  silently,  his  thoughts  elsewhere.  Routt 
was  cheerful,  loquacious,  friendly.  Wint  envied  him  faintly. 
Every  one  liked  Jack,  respected  him.  .  .  . 

Routt  won  the  game  with  a  run  of  four,  and  laid  his  cue 
on  the  table.  "  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,  Wint,"  he  said. 
"You  don't  mind  waiting?  " 

"  I'll  go  with  you,"  Wint  countered. 

Routt  shook  his  head.  "  Now,  Wint  —  no,  I  won't  let  you. 
You  know  —  play  it  safe,  man.  You  can't  afford  to  monkey 
with  this." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Jack." 

"  Oh,  Wint,  I  mean  it.  Leave  it  alone.  That's  the  only 
safe  way  —  for  you." 

Wint's  eyes  flamed  suddenly.  "  Aren't  you  coming?  "  he 
asked,  and  started  for  the  door. 

Routt  followed,  still  protesting.  "  Wint  —  don't  be  a  darned 
fool." 

"  Don't  be  a  preacher,  Jack." 

"  Please,  Wint  —  leave  it  alone.  Come  on  back.  I  won't 
go  either." 


26  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Wint  said  nothing,  but  he  went  steadily  ahead;  and  Routt 
yielded.  They  left  the  hotel,  went  half  a  block,  entered  an 
alley,  climbed  a  stair.  .  .  . 

County  option  had  closed  the  saloons;  but  Hardiston  was 
still  far  from  being  a  dry  town.  When  they  returned  to 
the  pool  room  half  an  hour  later,  Wint's  cheeks  were  un 
naturally  flushed,  and  he  laughed  more  easily  than  before. 


CHAPTER  V 

COUNCIL   OF   WAR 

A10S  CARETALL  and  his  daughter  had  supper  —  dinner 
was  at  midday  in  the  Caretall  household  —  alone  to 
gether.  Old  Maria  Hale  cooked  the  supper,  and  Agnes 
brought  it  to  the  table.  It  was  a  good  supper.  Fried  chicken, 
for  example;  and  mashed  potatoes  as  creamy  as  —  cream. 
And  afterwards,  apple  tapioca  pudding  of  a  peculiar  excellence. 
All  garnished  with  little,  round  biscuits,  each  no  more  than  a 
crisp  mouthful.  The  Congressman  smacked  his  lips  over  it 
with  frank  appreciation.  "  Maria,"  he  told  the  old  colored 
woman,  "  you  could  make  your  fortune  in  Washington." 

Maria  cackled  delightedly.  She  was  a  shriveled  little  old 
crone,  bent,  wrinkled,  and  suspected  of  being  as  bald  as  an 
egg.  No  one  ever  saw  her  without  a  kerchief  bound  tightly 
around  her  head.  She  had  looked  a  hundred  years  old  for 
twenty  years,  and  declared  she  was  more  than  that.  "  I  mus' 
be  a  hundred  an'  twenty,  at  the  mos',"  she  used  to  say,  when 
questioned.  Now  she  cackled  with  delight  at  the  Congress 
man's  praise  of  her  cookery. 

"  I  don't  know  'bout  Wash'n't'n,"  she  declared.  "  But  I  ain' 
makin'  no  great  pile  in  Hardiston,  Miste'  Caretall." 

He  laughed,  head  tilted  back,  mouth  full  of  biscuit.  "  You 
old  fraud,  you  could  buy  and  sell  Chase  himself,  twice  over. 
You  haven't  spent  a  cent  for  a  hundred  years,  Maria." 

She  giggled  like  a  girl,  and  went  out  to  the  kitchen,  wagging 
her  head  from  side  to  side  and  mumbling  to  herself.  Agnes 
looked  after  her,  and  when  the  door  was  closed  said,  with  a 
toss  of  her  head :  "  She's  getting  awfully  cranky,  Dad." 

Amos  chuckled.  "  Always  was,  Agnes.  Just  the  same  when 
I  was  your  age.  But  she  can  make  mighty  un-cranky  biscuits." 

"  She  gets  cross  as  a  bear  if  I  don't  help  her  with  the  dishes." 

27 


28  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Amos  looked  at  his  daughter  with  a  dry  smile.  "  Then  if 
I  was  you,  Agnes,  I'd  help  her." 

She  started  to  reply,  but  thought  better  of  it.  A  little 
restraint  fell  upon  them,  and  this  continued  until  Amos  leaned 
back  with  a  sigh  of  contentment  and  pulled  a  pipe  from  his 
coat  pocket.  It  was  a  horny  old  pipe,  black,  odorous,  rank  as 
a  skunk  cabbage.  Agnes  hated  it;  but  Amos  stuck  to  it,  year 
in,  year  out.  When  it  caked  so  full  that  a  pencil  would  not 
go  down  into  its  cavity,  Amos  always  whittled  out  the  cake, 
burned  the  pipe  with  alcohol,  and  started  over  again.  The  brier 
had  been  in  regular  and  constant  use  for  half  a  dozen  years 
—  and  it  was  still,  as  Agnes  used  to  say,  "  going  strong." 

Amos  cuddled  this  pipe  lovingly  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
He  polished  the  black  bowl  in  his  palm,  and  then  by  rubbing 
it  across  his  cheek  and  against  the  side  of  his  nose.  Agnes 
fidgeted,  and  Amos  watched  her  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye 
until  she  rose  suddenly  and  cried: 

"Dad  — that's  horrid!" 

He  chuckled.  "  What  was  it  you  said  about  dishes?  "  he 
asked. 

She  went  sulkily  toward  the  kitchen. 

Amos  watched  her  with  a  certain  amount  of  speculation  in 
his  eyes.  Amos  was  always  speculating,  speculating  about 
people,  and  about  things.  He  stared  at  the  door  that  closed 
behind  her  for  a  long  minute  before  the  clock  on  the  mantel 
struck  seven  and  broke  the  charm.  Then  he  got  up  stiffly, 
favoring  his  big  body,  and  went  into  the  sitting  room.  Only 
half  a  dozen  houses  in  Hardiston  had  living  rooms  in  those 
days.  Rooms  with  no  other  appointed  use  were,  respectively, 
sitting  rooms  and  parlors.  The  library  and  the  living  room 
were  arriving  together. 

Amos  went  into  the  sitting  room  and  pulled  a  creaky  rocking- 
chair  up  before  the  coal  fire.  His  feet  were  in  carpet  slippers, 
and  he  kicked  off  the  slippers  and  thrust  his  feet  toward  the 
blaze.  He  wore  knitted  wool  socks,  gray,  with  white  heels 
and  toes.  Maria  Hale  had  knitted  Amos'  socks  for  ten  years. 
He  wriggled  his  toes  comfortably,  then  searched  from  one 
pocket  a  black  plug  of  tobacco,  from  another  a  crooked-blade 


COUNCIL  OF  WAR  29 

pruning  knife.  He  sliced  three  or  four  slices  from  the  plug 
with  grave  care,  restored  plug  and  knife  to  his  pockets,  rolled 
the  slices  to  a  crumbling  pile  in  his  palm,  and  filled  his  pipe. 
When  it  was  lighted  —  he  "  primed  "  it  by  cramming  into  the 
top  of  the  pipe  some  half-burned  tobacco  from  a  previous 
smoking  —  he  leaned  back  luxuriously  in  the  chair,  closed  his 
eyes,  puffed  hard  and  thought  gently. 

He  was  still  in  this  position  when  the  telephone  rang;  and 
he  rose,  grumblingly,  to  answer  it.  Winthrop  Chase,  Senior, 
was  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire;  and  when  he  discovered  this, 
Amos  winked  gravely  at  the  fire  and  his  voice  descended  half 
an  octave. 

"  Good  evening,  Congressman,"  said  Chase. 

"Evening,  Mr.  Chase,"  said  Amos. 

"  Gergue  told  me  you  were  coming  home." 

"  I  guess  he  was  right." 

"  He  thought  you  would  want  to  see  me." 

Amos'  eyes  widened.     "Did  he  say  so?  " 

Chase  laughed.  "  Well  —  you  understand  —  Gergue  has  his 
methods." 

Amos  nodded  soberly.  "  Yes,  yes.  Well  —  you  can  come 
to-night  if  you  want." 

"Er  — what— " 

"  I  said  you  could  come  to-night.     I'll  be  home  all  evenin'." 

Winthrop  Chase,  Senior,  hesitated.  He  hesitated  for  so  long 
that  Amos  asked  blandly:  "  Er  —  anything  else?  " 

"  No,  no-o,"  Chase  decided  then.     "  No  —  I'll  come." 

"  That's  good,"  said  Amos ;  and  hung  up,  and  came  back  to 
his  chair  with  a  pleasant  smile  upon  his  countenance. 

Almost  immediately,  some  one  knocked  on  the  door.  From 
the  sitting  room,  the  door  was  open  into  the  hall,  so  that 
Amos  heard  the  knock  easily.  There  was  a  bell,  and  most 
people  rang  the  bell;  but  Peter  Gergue  always  knocked,  so 
Amos  called  out  confidently: 

"  Come  in,  Pete." 

Listening,  he  heard  the  front  door  open.  Then  it  closed, 
and  Gergue  came  slowly  along  the  hall  and  into  the  room. 
Amos  looked  up  and  nodded. 


30  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"Evening,  Peter.  Glad  t'see  you.  Take  a  chair.  Any 
chair." 

Peter  put  his  hat  on  the  table  and  dragged  a  morris  chair 
before  the  fire.  He  sat  down,  still  without  speaking,  and 
extended  his  feet  toward  the  fire  in  imitation  of  Amos.  Amos' 
hands  were  clasped  across  his  middle,  and  Gergue  clasped  his 
hands  there  too.  Thus  they  remained  for  a  little  time  silent. 

But  such  a  position  put  Gergue  under  too  great  a  handicap. 
He  had  to  get  his  fingers  into  his  hair;  and  so  presently  he 
unclasped  his  hands  and  began  to  rummage  through  the  tangle 
at  the  nape  of  his  neck  for  his  medulla,  as  though  hunting  for 
something.  Apparently,  he  found  it;  for  after  a  moment  he 
said  slowly: 

"  Well,  Amos,  we're  licked." 

Amos  turned  his  head  and  studied  Gergue.  "  Do  tell !  "  he 
exclaimed  at  last. 

Gergue  nodded.  "  Hollow  ain't  got  any  more  chance  of  being 
Mayor  than  —  than  young  Wint  Chase  has." 

This  seemed  to  startle  Amos.  He  opened  his  mouth  to  speak, 
hesitated,  closed  it  again,  then  asked :  "  Young  Wint !  What 
makes  you  say  that?  " 

"  We-ell  —  no  more  chance  than  I  got,  then,"  Gergue 
amended. 

The  Congressman  seemed  satisfied  with  the  amendment.  He 
wagged  his  head  as  though  deploring  the  situation,  then  asked: 
"Why?  What's  Jim  done?" 

Gergue  looked  at  Amos  reproachfully.  "We-ell,  you  know 
Jim." 

"  Always  does  the  right  thing,  don't  he?  " 

"  They  ain't  no  votes  in  that." 

The  two  considered  this  truism  for  a  time  in  thoughtful 
silence.  In  this  interval,  Gergue  produced  and  filled  and 
lighted  a  pipe  in  a  manner  painfully  like  that  of  Amos.  Every 
detail  —  pipe,  plug,  knife,  priming  —  was  the  same.  Amos 
watched  him  with  interest,  and  when  Gergue  had  finished  with 
the  rites,  Amos  asked: 

"  How  big  a  margin  has  Chase  got?  " 

Gergue   opened   his   hands    as   though   baring   every   secret. 


COUNCIL  OF  WAR  31 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  Jim'll  get  two  votes.  Yours  and  mine.  He 
won't  vote  for  himself.  Says  it  ain't  right.  So  I  don't  know 
where  we  can  count  on  anything  else."  He  hesitated,  then: 
"  You  know,  this  Chase  has  got  a  holt  on  Hardiston." 

"How?" 

"Every  way.  Four-five  hundred  men  working  for  him,  one 
way  or  another.  The  drys  are  all  with  him.  The  money  is 
all  with  him.  And  the  Democrats  are  all  with  him." 

Amos  pondered.  "  I  hadn't  no  notion  Chase  was  such  a 
popular  man,"  he  said. 

Gergue  shook  his  head.  "He  ain't.  They'd  all  like  to  see 
him  licked,  just  to  see  his  swelling  go  down  some.  But  —  a 
man  can't  vote  for  Hollow." 

Amos  puffed  hard.  "You  know,  Peter,  I've  a  mind  to  vote 
for  Chase  myself." 

Gergue  was  startled ;  but  after  a  minute  he  grinned.  "  What 
ever  you  say  goes  for  me,  Amos." 

"  Chase  is  a  good  man,  a  big  man,  a  public-spirited  man. 
You  know,  Peter,  if  he  was  elected  Mayor,  things  being  as  they 
is,  he'd  stand  right  in  line  for  Congress  next  fall.  I  don't 
know  as  I'd  even  run  against  him,  Pete." 

Gergue  leaned  forward  and  clapped  his  knee  and  chuckled. 
Something  pleased  him.  Amos  watched  him  with  an  expression 
of  comical  bewilderment,  until  Gergue  caught  his  eye  and 
sobered  abruptly.  Then  Amos  asked,  most  casually: 

"How's  young  Wint,  Peter?  " 

Gergue  looked  sharply  at  the  Congressman.  "The  boy? 
We-ell  —  he's  over  twenty-one." 

"Er  —  is  he?" 

Amos  squinted  at  the  ceiling.  "  Seems  to  me  he  is.  He 
was  three  years  ahead  of  Agnes  in  school  and  high  school,  and 
she  is  twenty  now.  He  must  be  twenty-two  or  three." 

Peter  considered  this,  but  made  no  comment.  After  a 
moment  Amos  asked  again:  "  So  —  how  is  he,  Peter?  " 

Gergue  rummaged  through  his  back  hair.  "  We-ell  — 
they  kicked  him  out  of  State  for  over-study  of  booze." 

Amos  nodded.     "I  know.     But  —  how  is  he?  " 

"  Still  at  it." 


32  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"Still  at  — the  booze?'5 

"  He  drinks  when  he  has  a  mind  to ;  and  he's  got  a  large  and 
active  mind." 

"  What  does  his  father  think  of  it?  " 

"  Various   sentiments." 

"  Wint  is  looking  badly." 

Gergue  nodded.  "  I  come  along  the  street  this  morning,"  he 
said.  "  He  was  standing  in  front  of  the  Post  Office.  His  back 
was  to  me;  and  when  I  says,  'Hello'  to  him,  he  jumped  a 
foot.  Nerves  on  edge." 

"  That's  natural." 

Peter  shook  his  head.     "  Not  natural ;  booze." 

"Oh,"  said  Amos;  and:  "But  he'll  straighten  up.  He'll 
come  out  all  right." 

Peter  shook  his  head.  "  I've  seen  'em  go  that  way.  By 
and  by  his  face  will  begin  to  look  old,  just  over  night.  And 
then  his  clothes  will  get  shabby,  and  b'fore  anybody  knows 
different,  he'll  be  hanging  around  the  hotel  corner  of  nights 
with  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth."  He  hesitated.  "  He's  set  in  his 
way,  Amos.  Nothing  but  an  accident'll  change  him." 

Amos  looked  across  at  Peter  curiously.     "  Accident?  " 

"  Yeah." 

Gergue  volunteered  no  explanation;  but  after  a  little  time 
Amos  said  slowly:  "Well,  Peter  —  some  accidents  ain't  so 
accidental  as  others.  Pete,  you  just  make  a  study  of  Wint 
Chase  for  me." 

Gergue  looked  curious,  and  he  threaded  his  hair  for  his 
medulla  oblongata,  but  he  asked  no  questions.  Before  a  direct 
instruction  or  command  from  Amos,  Peter  was  always  silently 
obedient.  He  looked  at  Amos,  and  then  he  turned  back  at 
the  fire;  and  for  a  long  time  the  two  men  sat  thus,  staring 
into  the  coals  above  the  smoking  bowls  of  their  pipes. 

It  is  one  of  the  merits  of  cut-plug  for  smoking  that  a  well- 
filled  pipe  gives  a  long  smoke.  Amos  Caretall's  pipe  lasted 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  before  the  last  embers  were  drowned 
in  the  moisture  at  the  bottom  of  the  bowl.  He  knocked  out 
the  loose  ashes  into  his  palm,  leaving  the  half-burned  cake 
in  the  bottom  of  the  pipe  to  serve  as  priming  for  a  later 


COUNCIL  OF  WAR  33 

smoke,  and  then  stuffed  the  pipe  affectionately  away  into  his 
pocket. 

Peter  was  still  puffing  at  his,  and  Amos  watched  him  for  a 
little,  and  then  he  chuckled  softly  to  himself.  Gergue  looked 
across  at  him  in  faint  surprise.  Amos  chuckled  harder,  began 
to  laugh,  laughed  aloud  —  and  instantly  was  as  sober  as  a 
judge. 

"  Peter,"  he  said  slowly,  "  what  you  reckon  Winthrop  Chase, 
Senior,  would  up  and  do  if  he  was  licked  for  Mayor?  " 

Gergue  considered  for  a  moment,  then  seriously  judged: 
"  He'd  up  and  lay  him  an  egg." 

Amos  nodded.  "  And  eggs  will  be  worth  fifty  cents  a  dozen, 
right  here  in  Hardiston,  inside  a  month.  It  might  pay  to  have 
him  lay  one,  Pete." 

"  You'll  need  a  political  Lay-or-Bust  for  that,  Amos." 

"  I've  got  one,  Peter." 

Gergue  stared  slowly  at  Amos,  his  eyes  ponderously  inquis 
itive.  At  length  he  asked:  "What  brand?  " 

Amos  leaned  toward  him  quickly.  "  Almost  any  good  man 
could  beat  Chase,  couldn't  he,  Pete?  " 

"  He  might  have  —  starting  at  the  first  go  off.  He  couldn't 
now." 

"  Chase  ain't  rightly  popular." 

"  No  —  he  puts  on  too  many  airs." 

"Hardiston'd  like  to  see  a  joke  on  him  —  now  wouldn't  it?  " 

"  Sure.  A  man  always  can  laugh  at  a  joke  on  the  other 
fellow.  Special  if  it's  on  old  Chase." 

"  Pete  —  I  kind  of  like  Congress." 

Gergue  nodded.     "  Don't  blame  you  a  speck." 

"  I  want  to  keep  a-going  back  there." 

"  Fair  enough." 

"  But  you  say,  yourself,  that  Chase  don't  agree  with  me  on 
that." 

"  He  says  so  too." 

Amos  tapped  Gergue's  knee.  "  Pete,  wouldn't  a  good, 
smashing  joke  on  Chase  put  him  out  of  the  running  for  a 
spell?  " 

Gergue   considered.     "  I'll   say  this,   Amos,"   he   announced 


34  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

at  length.  "A  joke  on  a  man  is  all  right,  if  it  don't  go  too 
far.  If  you  go  too  far,  you'll  make  'em  sorry  for  Chase,  and 
then  there'll  be  no  stopping  'em.  Politics  sure  does  love  a 
martyr.  But  —  short  o'  that  —  a  joke's  good  medicine." 

Caretall  sat  up  quickly.  "  That's  fine,"  he  said  soberly. 
"  That's  fine,"  he  repeated.  And  he  fell  silent,  and  after  a 
little  said,  half  aloud  and  for  the  third  time,  "Peter,  that's 
fine." 

Peter's  pipe  smoked  out,  and  he,  too,  emptied  the  ashes 
and  preserved  the  last  charred  bits  of  tobacco  as  Amos  had  done. 
Then  he  rose,  reached  slowly  for  his  hat.  "I'll  go  along, 
Amos,"  he  announced. 

The  Congressman  lumbered  up  out  of  his  chair,  his  broad 
countenance  beaming.  "  Fair  enough,  Peter.  But,  Pete  —  I 
want  to  ask  you  something." 

Gergue  shifted  his  hat  to  his  left  hand;  his  right  went  to 
the  back  of  his  neck.  "What  is  it?  " 

"Take  a  man  like  young  Wint,  Peter.  Suppose  he 
was  give  a  job  —  sudden  —  that  was  right  up  to  him.  Respon 
sibility,  power,  something  to  do  that  had  to  be  done.  Nobody 
to  boss  him  but  himself.  Him  and  his  heart.  What  would  that 
do  to  a  man  like  Wint,  Pete?  " 

Gergue  scratched  his  head  —  hard.  He  thought  —  hard. 
Amos  said  softly :  "  Don't  hurry,  Pete.  Think  it  over." 
Gergue  nodded;  and  presently  he  said: 

"Man  just  like  Wint  —  that's  what  you  mean?  " 

"Say  — Wint  himself." 

"  It'd  depend  on  the  man." 

"  Say  it's  Wint." 

"  Depend  on  whether  he  had  any  backbone  —  any  stuff  in 
him." 

"Has  Wint  got  it?" 

Gergue  shook  his  head.     "Ain't  sure." 

"  Say  he  has." 

"Then  —  this  job  you  mentioned  would  straighten  him  out 
—  likely." 

"  Say  he  hadn't." 

"  'Twouldn't  hurt  him  none." 


COUNCIL  OF  WAR  35 


Amos  nodded.  "  That's  what  I  thought,  Pete."  He  laid  his 
hand  on  the  other's  shoulder  and  propelled  him  gently  toward 
the  door.  There  he  paused,  added:  "You  do  what  I  asked, 
will  you,  Pete?  Make  a  study  of  Wint." 

"All  right." 

"And  — Pete." 

Gergue  turned. 

"  Tell  V.  R.  Kite  I  wish  he'd  come  and  see  me." 

Peter's  eyes  lighted  slowly  —  and  after  a  moment,  he  grinned. 
"All  right,  Amos,"  he  said  quietly,  and  went  down  the  walk 
to  the  gate. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WINTHROP   CHASE,   SENIOR 

WINTHROP  CHASE,  SENIOR,  took  himself  seriously. 
When  he  walked  the  streets  of  Hardiston,  bowing 
most  affably,  smiling  most  genially,  he  was  inwardly 
conscious  of  the  gaze  of  all  who  passed  that  way.  He  felt 
their  eyes  upon  him;  and  this  gave  him  a  sense  of  responsibility, 
a  sense  of  duty.  His  duty,  as  he  saw  it,  was  to  set  an  example 
to  the  town;^n  example  of  erectness  and  respectability  and 
high  ideals.  And  it  must  be  said  for  Chase  that  he  did  his 
utmost  along  these  lines. 

He  was  not  an  educated  man.  He  had  been  born  in  Hardiston, 
and  had  attended  the  Hardiston  schools;  but  in  those  days 
the  Hardiston  schools  were  not  remarkable.  Chase  could  read, 
he  could  write,  and  he  could  arrange  and  classify  more  figures 
in  his  head  than  most  men  could  manage  on  paper.  But 
beyond  that,  he  did  not  go.  There  was  a  native  honesty  in  the 
man;  and  this  led  him  to  recognize  his  own  shortcomings. 
For  example,  when  he  was  called  upon  to  address  his  fellow 
citizens,  he  always  summoned  a  collaborator  and  arranged  his 
speech  in  advance.  He  made  no  secret  of  this.  In  the  same  way, 
the  printed  word  was  a  continual  surprise  and  delight  to  him; 
every  book  he  opened  was  a  succession  of  amazing  revelations. 
And  this  characteristic  gave  him  a  profound  admiration  for 
such  folk  as  the  editors  of  the  Hardiston  papers.  As  business 
men,  he  had  for  them  only  a  benignant  contempt;  as  politicians, 
they  were  pawns  and  nothing  more;  but  for  their  ability  to 
say  what  they  wished  with  pen  and  paper,  Chase  accorded 
them  all  honors. 

The  elder  Chase's  sense  of  responsibility  to  the  town  had 
made  him  an  unsympathetic  father  to  Wint.  He  expected  Wint, 
too,  to  live  up  to  the  position  in  which  he  found  himself.  It 
was  not  hypocrisy  that  made  him  gloss  over  private  errors 

36 


WINTHROP  CHASE,  SENIOR  37 

and  denounce  more  public  aberrations;  it  was  a  feeling  that 
Wint  owed  a  good  example  to  the  town.  Thus  he  had  never 
objected  to  Wint's  drinking  at  home  —  the  Chases  always  had 
liquor  in  the  house  —  but  when  Wint  was  expelled  from  the 
state  university  for  drinking,  his  father  was  furious;  and  when 
Wint  once  or  twice  was  brought  home  from  town  in  an  uncertain 
state  of  mind  and  body,  his  father  raged. 

The  elder  Chase  made  many  errors,  most  of  them  well- 
intentioned,  and  he  accomplished  much  good,  most  of  it  by 
accident.  He  was  a  curious  compound  of  harmless  faults  and 
dangerous  virtues.  And  no  one  regretted  his  mistakes  more 
than  Chase  himself. 

Five  minutes  after  telephoning  Amos  Caretall,  Winthrop 
Chase  saw  that  was  a  strategic  mistake,  and  began  regretting  it. 
Until  Amos's  home-coming  the  mayoralty  campaign  had  been 
going  smoothly  and  satisfactorily.  Hollow  was  not  a  dangerous 
opponent,  and  Chase  seemed  reasonably  sure  of  election  by 
default. 

Nevertheless,  the  coming  of  Amos  had  disturbed  him.  Amos 
was  rightly  feared  by  his  political  enemies.  He  had  the  habit 
of  success;  and  no  matter  how  secure  Chase  might  feel,  the 
thought  of  Amos  made  him  secretly  tremble. 

He  was  not  a  man  to  avoid  conflict;  therefore  he  had  sought 
to  confront  the  enemy  forthwith,  and  had  telephoned  Amos  with 
that  end  in  view.  He  wished  to  bolster  his  own  courage  by 
seeing  Amos  cower;  and  Amos  had  disappointed  him.  Instead 
of  cowering,  Amos  had  told  him  carelessly  that  if  he,  Chase, 
wished  to  do  so,  he  might  call  on  Amos  that  night.  And  Chase 
had  promised  to  come. 

'Now  he  was  torn  with  regrets.  He  was  sorry  he  had  tel 
ephoned;  and  he  was  sorry  he  had  promised  to  come.  At 
first  he  thought  he  would  stay  at  home,  let  Amos  wait  in  vain; 
and  he  tried  to  bolster  this  decision  with  arguments.  But 
they  were  unconvincing.  Sure  as  he  was  of  the  election,  Amos 
made  him  nervous;  and  eventually,  with  a  desperate  feeling 
that  he  must  know  the  worst,  and  quickly,  he  set  out  for  the 
Caretall  home. 

Agnes  came  to  admit  him  when  he  rang  the  bell.     He  liked 


38  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

the  girl.  She  was  pretty  and  gay,  and  she  was  always  flutter- 
ingly  deferential  in  his  presence.  She  opened  the  door,  and 
saw  him,  and  cried  delightedly: 

"Why,  Mr.  Chase!     Come  in!  " 

He  obeyed,  drawing  off  his  gloves.  He  was  one  of  the  four 
men  in  Hardiston  who  wore  kid  gloves.  "  Good  evening, 
Agnes,"  he  said,  in  his  tone  of  condescending  graciousness. 
"  Is  your  father  at  home?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  —  he's  in  by  the  fire." 

Amos  called  from  the  sitting  room:  "Toasting  my  toes, 
Winthrop.  Come  in." 

"  Let  me  take  your  coat,"  Agnes  was  begging;  and  he  allowed 
her  to  help  him  off  with  the  garment,  and  then  handed  her  his 
hat  and  gloves  and  watched  her  bestow  them  on  the  rack.  She 
was  graceful  in  everything  she  did,  and  she  looked  up  at  him 
in  a  humble  little  fashion,  as  though  to  solicit  his  approval. 
He  gave  it. 

"  Thank  you,  Agnes,"  he  said  gravely. 

"Now!  "  she  said,  and  turned  toward  the  sitting-room  door. 
In  the  doorway  she  paused.  "  Dad,  here's  Mr.  Chase." 

"Come  in,  Chase,"  Amos  called  again.  "Take  a  chair. 
Any  chair.  Turning  cold,  ain't  it?  " 

Amos  did  not  get  up;  but  Chase  went  toward  him  and  held 
out  his  hand  so  that  the  Congressman  was  forced  to  rise.  He 
was  in  the  act  of  filling  his  pipe  again,  knife  in  one  hand,  slices 
of  tobacco  in  the  other;  and  he  had  trouble  clearing  one  hand 
for  the  greeting,  but  he  managed.  "Now  sit  down,  Chase," 
he  urged  again,  when  the  handshake  was  over.  "  Glad  you 
came  in.  Is  it  turning  cold,  or  ain't  it?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Chase  seriously.  "Yes,  there's  a  touch  of 
cold  in  the  air." 

"Sky  looked  that  way  to  me  this  afternoon.     Early,  too." 

"I  think  it  will  pass,  though,"  Chase  declared.  "We'll 
have  some  Indian  summer  yet." 

"  Had  some  snow,  haven't  you?  " 

"  Two  or  three  inches,  early  this  month.  But  it  melted  in 
an  hour  when  the  sun  touched  it." 

Amos   nodded    slowly.     He   was   lighting   his    pipe.     Agnes 


WINTHROP  CHASE,  SENIOR  39 

had  come  in  with  the  visitor,  but  after  a  moment  took  herself 
upstairs  and  the  two  men  were  left  alone.  This  made  Chase 
uncomfortable.  Even  Agnes  would  have  been  a  support  in 
this  encounter.  He  looked  sidewise  at  Amos,  but  Amos  was 
studying  the  fire;  and  after  a  minute  the  Congressman  got 
up  and  poked  out  the  ashes  and  put  on  half  a  bucket  of  fresh 
coal.  Then  he  jabbed  the  coals  again,  and  so  resumed  his 
seat. 

"Ain't  been  over  to  Washington  lately,  Chase,"  he  said 
presently. 

Chase  aroused  himself.  "  No.  No.  Been  very  busy,  Amos. 
Affairs  here,  you  know  .  .  ." 

"  I  know,  I  know.  Now,  me  —  Washington  is  my  business. 
But  you  have  to  stick  to  your  coal  and  your  iron."  He 
paused.  "  I  sh'd  think  you'd  get  tired  of  it,  Chase." 

"How  are  things  in  the  Capitol?  "  Chase  asked  importantly. 
Amos  looked  at  him  sidewise. 

"  Why  —  I  ain't  noticed  anything  wrong." 

"  Who  will  the  Republicans  nominate?  " 

Amos  chuckled.     "  Gawd,  Chase,  I  wish  I  knew." 

"  They'll  need  a  strong  man,  Amos.  The  country's  swinging 
again." 

The  Congressman  looked  at  Chase,  and  he  grinned.  "  Chase," 
he  said,  "  you're  a  funny  Democrat." 

«  Why?     I  — " 

"  j[  guess  you're  one  of  these  waiting  Democrats  —  eh?  " 

Chase  looked  confused.     "I  ...  What's  that?  " 

"  Figuring  there's  bound  to  be  a  swing  some  day  —  and 
when  it  comes,  you'll  be  there  and  waiting,"  Amos  nodded. 
"  You're  right,  too.  Bound  to  be  a  swing  some  day." 

"  I'm  a  Democrat  from  conviction,  Amos.  The  Democratic 
party  .  .  ." 

"  Fiddlesticks !  Tariff  has  made  you  —  iron  and  steel. 
Fiddlesticks!" 

Chase  fidgeted;  Amos  fell  silent,  and  for  a  time  neither  man 
spoke.  Once  Amos  reached  into  a  table  drawer  and  produced 
a  cigar  and  offered  it  to  the  other.  Chase  lighted  it.  When 
it  was  half  smoked,  Amos  asked  carelessly: 


40  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  Well,  Chase,  what  was  it  you  wanted  to  see  me  about?  " 

Chase  put  himself  on  the  defensive.  "I  —  why  you  asked 
me  to  come.  I  supposed  .  .  ." 

Amos  grinned.  "  Have  it  so,  Chase.  Have  it  so."  He 
puffed  hard  at  his  pipe,  looked  at  the  other.  "  Well  —  does 
it  look  like  the  swing  was  coming  in  Hardiston?  " 

Chase  stiffened  self-consciously.  "  The  town  has  demanded 
that  I  run  for  Mayor  —  and  —  I  consented." 

"  That  was  a  public-spirited  thing  to  do,  Chase.  With  all 
your  business  to  hinder  you  —  take  your  time  .  .  ." 

"  I  was  glad  to  to  do  it.  A  man  owes  it  ...  If  there  is  a 
demand  for  him,  he  must  respond." 

"Sure!     Sure  thing!     And  you've  responded  noble,  Chase." 

"  I've  made  a  straightforward  campaign." 

"  First-class  campaign.     You  figure  you've  got  a  chance?  " 

Chase's  confidence  returned.  "  I'm  going  to  win,  Amos. 
Nothing  can  stop  me.  I'll  be  the  next  Mayor  of  Hardiston 
—  sure." 

Amos  looked  thoughtful.  "  I  ain't  in  touch  —  myself."  He 
puffed  at  his  pipe.  "  Gergue  says  you'll  win  —  barring  an 
accident." 

"  There  will  be  no  accident." 

"Eh?" 

"  I  intend  to  see  to  it  that  there  is  no  accident." 

Amos  nodded.  "  Well,"  he  commented,  "  that's  your 
privilege." 

Chase  leaned  forward.  "  Congressman,"  he  said  seriously, 
"it's  a  bad  plan  to  stay  away  from  home  so  long.  You  get 
out  of  touch  with  affairs  here.  You  ought  to  —  you  need 
some  ally  here  to  watch  over  your  interests." 

Amos  looked  up  quickly.  "  Now,  I  never  thought  of  that," 
he  declared. 

Chase  clapped  his  hand  on  his  knee.  "  It's  right.  You 
can't  tell  what  the  people  are  thinking  unless  you  live  among 
them  —  as  I  do,  sir." 

Amos  considered  this  statement,  and  then  he  remarked: 
"  Take  this  wet  and  dry  business,  for  instance.  Now,  me  — 
I'm  so  far  away  I  don't  rightly  know  what  the  folks  here  are 


WINTHROP  CHASE,  SENIOR  41 

thinking.  But  you — "  He  hesitated.  "How  does  it  strike 
you,  Chase?  " 

"It's  the  big  issue  here." 

"How?     County's  dry." 

"  But  the  town  isn't.     The  law  is  not  enforced  here." 

"Why  not?" 

Chase  laughed  shortly.     "  The  present  Mayor  — " 

Amos  interrupted.  "  I'm  a  wet  man,  Chase.  You  know  that. 
I  guess  you  are,  too,  ain't  you?  " 

Chase  shook  his  head  sternly.  "  No,  indeed.  Prohibition  is 
the  greatest  good  for  the  greatest  number.  I  want  to  see  it 
sweep  the  country  —  state-wide  —  nation-wide." 

Amos  looked  startled.     "  I'm  surprised." 

"  There's  no  question  about  it,  Congressman.  Prohibition  is 
coming.  And  I'm  for  it." 

"You  have  —  you  ain't  a  dry  man,  are  you?" 

"  I  believe  in  moderation." 

"  Now  that's  funny,  too,"  Amos  commented,  his  head  on 
one  side  in  the  familiar  posture  that  suggested  he  was  suffering 
from  stiff  neck. 

"Funny?     Why?" 

"  You  and  me.  Me  —  I'm  a  wet  man ;  I  believe  in  license. 
But  I'm  a  teetotaller.  You're  a  dry  man  —  but  you  like  mod 
eration.  I'm  for  a  wet  state  and  a  dry  cellar  —  and  you're 
for  a  dry  state  and  a  wet  cellar.  Ain't  that  always  the  way?  " 

Chase  flushed  stiffly.  "  Many  great  men  have  held  public 
views  differing  from  their  private  practice." 

"Who,  f'r  instance?" 

"Why  —  many  of  them." 

Amos  nodded.  "  Well,  you've  studied  the  thing.  Maybe 
you're  right." 

"I  am  right." 

The  Congressman  looked  at  the  other  with  a  cold,  quizzical 
light  in  his  eyes.  "  How  'bout  Wint?  He  hold  your  views?  " 

Chase  turned  red  as  fire.     "  He  has  nothing  to  do  with  this." 

"  I  heard  he  was  a  wet  man,  personally.  But  I  wondered  if 
he  was  dry  like  you  in  theory." 

The  other  said  stiffly:  "My  son  has  disgraced  me.     I  have 


42  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

been  very  angry  with  him.  But  it  may  have  been  as  much 
my  fault  as  his.  I  have  tried  to  be  patient.  He  understands, 
now,  that  if  he  continues  —  if  he  does  not  mend  his  ways  — 
I  — "  He  stopped  uncertainly. 

"  Reck'n   you'd   disown   him." 

An  unexpected  and  very  human  weakness  showed  in  the 
countenance  of  the  elder  Chase.  His  features  worked;  he  said 
huskily,  "Well  —  the  boy  —  he's  my  only  child,  Amos." 

Amos  had  never  liked  Winthrop  Chase  till  that  moment. 
He  was  surprised  at  the  burst  of  sympathy  that  moved  him. 
He  nodded.  "  You're  right,  Chase.  And  —  Wint's  a  good  boy, 
I  figure." 

His  tone  encouraged  the  other.  Chase  leaned  toward  the 
Congressman.  "  Amos,"  he  said,  "  there's  a  new  day  coming  in 
Ohio  politics." 

Amos  looked  puzzled.  "  To-morrow's  always  likely  to  be 
a  new  day." 

"  Things  are  changing,  Amos." 

"How?" 

"  Men  are  dissatisfied  with  the  present  —  administration  of 
affairs." 

"Men  are  always   dissatisfied." 

"  They're  looking  around  for  a  new  —  hired  man  —  Amos." 

Amos  chuckled ;  then  he  said  slowly :  "  Well  —  there's  lots 
of  folks  looking  for  the  job." 

Chase  hesitated,  considering  his  next  word;  and  in  the  end 
he  cast  diplomacy  to  the  winds  and  came  out  flatly:  "Amos 
—  it's  a  good  time  to  look  around  for  friends.  To  make  new 
alliances." 

Amos  looked  at  the  other  thoughtfully.  "Meaning  —  just 
what?  " 

Chase  said  simply :  "  You  and  I  ought  to  get  together,  Amos." 

"  We're  —  here  together." 

"  I  mean  —  a  permanent  alliance  —  offensive  and  defensive. 
For  mutual  good." 

Amos'  pipe  had  smoked  itself  to  the  end.  He  emptied  it 
with  his  accustomed  care  before  answering.  Then  he  said 
slowly:  "Specify,  Chase.  Specify." 


WINTHROP  CHASE,  SENIOR  43 

Chase  proceeded  to  specify.  "  I'm  going  to  be  the  next 
Mayor  of  Hardiston,  Amos." 

"  Barring  that  accident." 

Chase  brushed  that  suggestion  aside.  "  My  victory  —  in  a 
strong  Republican  town  —  will  make  me  an  important  figure 
in  the  district." 

"  Meaning  —  my   district." 

"  Meaning  the  Congressional  district." 

Amos  looked  at  the  other.  "  You  figuring  to  run  against  me 
next  year." 

Chase  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  want  to:  There's  no  sense 
in  our  cutting  each  other's  throats." 

"  That's  against  the  law,  anyhow." 

Chase  leaned  forward  more  earnestly.  "  Amos  —  here's  my 
proposition.  We  ought  to  get  together.  I'm  willing.  I've 
got  Hardiston.  Sentiment  in  the  district  is  swinging.  I  can 
make  a  good  fight  against  you  next  year  —  I  think  I  can  win. 
But  I  don't  want  to  fight  you.  So  —  Let's  get  together. 
Party  politics  are  out  of  date.  We're  the  two  biggest  men  in 
the  county,  Amos.  You  step  aside  and  let  me  go  to  Congress  — 
I  can  beat  any  one  else  easily.  And  I'll  back  you  for  —  the 
Senate,  Amos." 

For  a  moment  Amos  remained  very  quietly  in  his  chair; 
then  he  coughed,  such  a  loud,  harsh  cough  that  Chase 
jumped.  And  then  he  said  slowly:  "Chase  —  you  startled 
me." 

Chase  said  condescendingly,  grandly:  "No  reason  for  that, 
Amos." 

"But  my  land,  man  —  the  Senate!     Me  in  the  Senate!  " 

"Why  not?     Worse  men  than  you  are  there." 

"  Chase  —  you're  the  man  for  the  Senate  —  not  me." 

Chase  bridled  like  a  girl.  "  No,  no,  Amos.  You've  the 
experience,  the  wide  view  — " 

Amos  seemed  to  recall  something.  "  That's  so,  Chase.  And 
you  —  you  ain't  Mayor  yet.  Something  might  happen." 

"It   won't." 

Amos  rose.  "  Chase,"  he  said,  "  I've  got  to  know  you  better 
to-night  than  in  twenty  years." 


44  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Chase  grasped  the  Congressman's  hand  firmly.  This  was  a 
habit  of  his,  this  firm  clasp.  "  It's  high  time,  then,  Amos." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Amos  considered.  "  Tell  you  what,  Chase,*'  he 
said  at  last,  "  I'll  think  it  over." 

"  It's  the  thing  to  do,  Amos." 

"  I'll  think  it  over,  Chase,"  the  Congressman  repeated.  He 
was  ushering  the  other  toward  the  door,  helping  him  into  his 
coat,  opening  the  door.  "  Wait  till  after  election,  Chase,"  he 
said  then  deferentially.  "  If  you're,  elected  Mayor  of  Hardis- 
ton  —  I  don't  see  but  what  we'll  have  to  team  up  together." 

Chase  grasped  the  Congressman's  hand  again.  "That's  a 
bargain,  Amos." 

"  A  bargain,"  Amos  echoed.     Then :  "  Good  night,  Chase." 

The  door  closed;  and  Amos,  after  a  minute,  began  to  chuckle 
slowly  under  his  breath. 


CHAPTER  VII 

V.   R.   KITE 

VICTOR  RUTHERFORD  KITE  was  a  man  about  half 
the  size  of  his  name.  Specifically,  he  was  five  feet  and 
two  inches  tall  with  his  shoes  on  and  his  pompadour 
ruffed  up.  A  saving  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  had  led  him  to 
abandon  the  long  roll  of  names  bestowed  upon  him  by  his 
parents  in  favor  of  the  shorter  and  more  fitting  initials.  As 
V.  R.  Kite,  he  had  lived  in  Hardiston  for  twenty  odd  years; 
and  most  Hardiston  people  had  forgotten  what  his  given  names 
actually  were. 

He  was  about  sixty  years  old;  and  he  looked  it.  His  eyes 
were  small,  and  they  were  washy  blue.  The  eyelids  fell  about 
them  in  thousands  of  tiny  folds  and  wrinkles,  so  that  the 
eyes  themselves  were  almost  hidden.  His  eyebrows  and  his 
hair  and  his  hints  of  side  whiskers  were  gray.  These  side 
whiskers  were  really  not  whiskers  at  all;  they  were  merely  a 
faint  downward  growth  of  the  hair  before  his  ears;  and  they 
lay  on  his  dry  cheeks  like  the  stroke  of  a  brush.  His  skin  was 
parched  dry;  it  was  so  dry  that  it  had  a  powdery  look.  He 
walked  with  a  dignified  little  swing  of  his  short  legs,  and  held 
his  head  poised  upon  his  thin  neck  in  a  self-contained  way  that 
indefinably  suggested  a  turkey. 

This  man  was  a  member  of  the  session  of  his  church;  he 
was  the  proprietor  and  manager  of  a  store  that  would  have 
been  a  five-and-ten  cent  emporium  in  a  larger  town  than 
Hardiston;  and  he  was  the  acknowledged  leader  of  the  "wet" 
forces  in  Hardiston.  He  himself  had  come  to  the  town  in  the 
beginning  to  run  a  saloon ;  but  after  a  few  years,  he  submerged 
his  own  personality  in  this  venture  and  opened  the  little  store, 
leaving  a  lieutenant  to  manage  the  saloon  which  he  still  owned. 
Thereafter,  he  acquired  other  establishments  of  a  like  nature, 

45 


46  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

until  he  attained  the  dignity  of  a  vested  interest.     When  county 
option  came,  he  suffered  in  proportion. 

But  though  town  and  county  voted  "dry,"  there  were  any 
number  of  Hardiston  folk  who  still  liked  a  drink  now  and 
then;  and  the  city  —  for  the  town  of  Hardiston  was  legally  a 
city  —  took  judicial  cognizance  of  the  will  of  its  citizens  to 
this  extent:  the  prohibition  law  was  not  strictly  enforced.  The 
official  interpretation  of  it  was:  "  It's  against  the  law  to  sell 
liquor  if  you  get  caught." 

V.  R.  Kite  thought  this  was  reasonable  enough,  and  took 
care  not  to  get  caught. 

On  the  evening  of  Amos  CaretalPs  home-coming,  Kite  was 
not  in  his  store,  so  Peter  Gergue  had  some  difficulty  in  locating 
him.  As  a  last  resort,  he  tried  the  little  man's  home,  and 
was  frankly  surprised  to  find  Kite  there.  He  delivered  Amos's 
message,  and  Kite,  who  was  at  times  a  fiery  little  man,  and  a 
sulker  between  whiles,  agreed  in  a  surly  fashion  that  he  would 
go  and  see  Amos  that  night.  Gergue  was  satisfied. 

Kite's  house  was  near  that  of  Amos;  but  he  did  not  set  forth 
at  once.  When  he  did,  it  was  just  in  time  to  encounter  Winthrop 
Chase,  Senior,  at  Amos's  gate.  Kite  bridled  and  slid  past 
Chase  as  warily  as  a  cat.  The  two  men  did  not  speak.  If 
they  had  spoken,  they  would  have  fought;  for  each  of  them- 
felt  that  he  had  borne  the  last  bearable  insult  from  the  other. 
They  passed,  and  Kite  hurried  up  to  Amos's  door  while  Winthrop 
Chase,  looking  back,  watched  with  a  calmly  complacent  smile. 
He  felt  that  he  and  Amos  had  come  to  an  understanding;  and 
he  rejoiced  at  the  thought  that  this  understanding  meant  the 
downfall  of  Kite  as  a  political  power  in  Hardiston. 

Kite  knocked  at  the  door  while  Amos  was  still  chuckling  in 
the  hall;  and  Amos  let  him  in.  Kite,  once  the  door  was  open, 
slid  inside,  shoved  the  door  shut  behind  him,  and  exclaimed  in 
a  low,  furious  voice :  "  That  Chase  met  me  outside.  He  was 
here.  Don't  deny  it,  Amos!  Did  you  aim  for  me  to  meet  him 
here?  " 

Amos  chuckled  and  patted  Kite's  shoulder.  "  Now,  now, 
Kite,"  he  said  soothingly.  "  You  didn't  run  onto  him  here. 
You  didn't  have  to  talk  to  him.  So  what  you  mad  about?  " 


V.  R.  KITE  47 

"  I  hate  the  sight  of  the  man.     He  makes  me  sick." 

"  Come  in  and  set  down,"  said  Amos,  still  chuckling. 

They  went  into  the  sitting-room,  Kite  still  grumbling  at  the 
nearness  of  his  escape.  When  they  were  once  settled,  Amos 
broke  in  on  this  monologue  without  hesitation:  "Chase  says 
he's  going  to  be  the  next  Mayor  —  whe'er  or  no,"  he  remarked. 

Kite's  dry  little  countenance  twisted  with  pain.  Amos  saw, 
and  asked  sympathetically:  "That  gripe  ye,  does  it?  " 

"  I'll  never  live  in  the  town  with  him  Mayor,"  Kite  exploded. 
"  I  won't  live  here.  I'll  sell  out  and  move  away.  I'll  shoot 
myself!  Or  him!  I'll  .  .  ." 

He  petered  out,  and  Amos  grinned.  "  I  gather  you  and 
Chase  don't  jibe.  What's  he  ever  done  to  you?  " 

"  Grinned  at  me.  He's  always  grinning  at  me  like  a  —  like 
a  _  like  .  .  ." 

Amos  smoothed  the  grin  from  his  own  countenance  with 
a  great  hand,  and  tilted  his  head  on  one  side.  "  You  and  him 
disagree  some  on  the  liquor  issue,  I  take  it." 

"  We  disagree  on  every  issue.     He's  .  .  ." 

"  Hardiston's  a  little  bit  wet,  ain't  it?  " 

"Of  course!  And  no  one  objects!  But  this  Chase  wants 
to  get  in  and  make  it  dry.  He's  a  ..." 

"  This  county  option  law's  popular,  though." 

"  Popular  —  with  fools  and  hypocrites  like  Chase." 

"  Chase'll  make  a  good  Mayor,"  Amos  suggested.  "  He's  a 
fine,  public-spirited  man.  Always  sacrificing  himself  for  the 
town  —  sacrificing  his  own  interests  —  an'  all  that.  So  he  says, 
anyhow.  Said  so  to  me,  to-night." 

Kite  waved  his  clenched  fists  above  his  head.  He  fought 
for  words.  Amos  seemed  not  to  notice  this. 

"  He's  a  good  man,  a  churchly  man,"  he  mused. 

Kite   exploded.     "Damn    hypocrite!" 

Amos  looked  across  at  the  other  in  surprise.  "  Hypocrite? 
How's  that?  " 

Kite  became  fluent.  "Take  the  liquor  question.  He 
preaches  dry  —  talks  dry  —  and  drinks  like  a  fish.  And  his 
son  is  a  common  toper." 

Amos  shook  his  head.     "  We-ell,  a  man's  private  life  ain't 


48  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

nothing  to  do  with  his  political  principles.  Lots  of  cases  like 
that.  If  a  man  thinks  right,  and  performs  his  office,  I  reckon 
that's  all  you  can  ask.  Out  of  office  hours  —  he's  allowed 
to  do  what  he  wants." 

"He'll  ruin  Hardiston,"  Kite  declared.  "Ruin  it."  He 
whirled  toward  the  other.  "  Your  fault,  too,  Amos.  If  you'd 
put  up  a  man  against  him,  instead  of  a  fish  like  Jim 
Hollow  .  .  ." 

"  I  figured  Jim  would  do.  He  always  tried  to  do  the  right 
thing,"  Amos  protested;  and  Kite  dismissed  the  protest  with 
a  grunt. 

"  The  town  don't  want  Chase,"  he  declared  vehemently,  "  but 
they  can't  take  Hollow." 

"  We-ell,"  said  Amos  thoughtfully,  "  what's  going  to  be  done 
about  it?  " 

Kite  threw  up  his  hands.  "  Nothing.  Too  late.  But 
I  ..." 

The  Congressman  interrupted  drawlingly :  "  Now  if  it  was 
young  Wint  that  was  going  to  be  Mayor  —  you  wouldn't  have 
to  worry." 

Kite  laughed  shortly.     "I  guess  not.     But  —  he's  not." 

"  He  wouldn't  be  likely  to  make  the  town  so  awful  dry." 

"  Not  unless  he  drank  it  dry." 

"  We-ell,  he  couldn't  do  that." 

Kite  grinned.     "  I'd  chance  it." 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment;  then  Amos  said  slowly: 
"  Funny  —  what  a  difference  one  letter  makes.  '  Jr.'  instead 
of'Sr.'  Eh?" 

Kite  nodded  slowly;  and  Amos  was  silent  again,  and  so 
for  a  time  the  two  men  sat,  thinking.  Kite  stared  at  the  fire, 
his  face  working.  Amos  watched  the  fire,  but  most  of  all  he 
watched  Kite.  He  studied  the  little  man,  his  head  tilted  on 
one  side,  his  eyes  narrowed.  And  Kite  remained  oblivious  of 
this  scrutiny.  In  the  end,  Amos  spoke: 

"  Kite  —  how  many  votes  you  figure  will  be  cast  at  this 
election?  " 

Kite  looked  up,  considered.  "  A  thousand  or  twelve  hundred, 
I  suppose." 


V.  R.  KITE  49 

Amos  bestirred  his  great  bulk  and  drew  from  a  pocket  a 
handful  of  letters.  He  chose  one,  replaced  the  others.  From 
another  pocket  he  routed  a  stubby  pencil,  moistened  the  lead, 
and  set  down  Kite's  figures  on  the  envelope.  "  I  think  that's 
too  many,"  he  commented. 

"Maybe,"  Kite  agreed.     "What  does  it  matter?" 

"How  many  wet  votes  can  you  swing  against  Chase  as  it 
stands?  " 

Kite  frowned.  "  I  can't  do  much  with  Hollow  to  work  with. 
Maybe  four  hundred." 

"Suppose  you  had  a  good  man  to  work  with?  " 

"  He  ought  to  get  close  to  five  hundred  out  of  twelve." 

"Everybody  so  much  in  love  with  Chase  as  that?  " 

Kite  shook  his  head.  "  They  don't  like  him.  Nobody  does. 
He  thinks  he  owns  the  town." 

"  Does  he  own  it?  " 

"A  good  part.     Three  or  four  hundred  votes,  anyhow." 

Amos  tapped  his  envelope  with  his  pencil,  figuring  thought 
fully.  "  I  was  thinking  some  of  playing  a  little  joke  on  Chase," 
he  said  at  last.  "  Think  they'd  enjoy  a  joke  on  him?  " 

Kite  looked  across  at  the  Congressman  with  hope  in  his  eye 
for  the  first  time  that  evening.  "Any  joke  on  Chase  will  find 
lots  to  laugh  at  it,"  he  declared. 

Amos  nodded.     "  That's  what  Gergue  said." 

"  He's  right."  Kite's  face  fell.  "  But  shucks!  What  chance 
is  there?  " 

"There's  a  chance,"  said  Amos. 

"  What  is  it?  " 

"Listen,  Kite,"  said  the  Congressman  soberly.  "Listen  and 
I'll  tell  you." 

He  began  to  speak;  he  talked  for  a  long  time,  and  as  he 
explained,  Kite's  countenance  passed  from  doubt  to  hope  and 
then  to  exultant  confidence. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   RALLY 

THE  home-coming  of  Congressman  Caretall  created  a 
momentary  stir  in  Hardiston;  but  that  was  all.  Every 
one  knew  he  had  come  home  to  take  a  hand  in  the 
mayoralty  election;  but  every  one  also  knew  that  the  elder 
Chase  was  going  to  be  elected  Mayor  in  spite  of  all  Caretall 
could  do,  and  so  the  first  stir  of  interest  soon  lagged.  There  was 
no  sport  to  be  had  in  an  election  that  was  a  foregone  con 
clusion. 

Caretall  did  not  seem  to  be  worrying  about  the  situation. 
He  walked  uptown  every  morning,  waited  at  the  Post  Office 
while  the  morning  mail  was  distributed,  talked  with  the  men 
that  gathered  there,  went  to  the  barber  shop  for  his  shave,  to 
the  Smoke  House  for  his  plug  of  black  tobacco,  to  the  hotel, 
or  to  the  Journal  office,  or  some  other  rallying  spot  for  men 
otherwise  unattached. 

Now  and  then  he  was  seen  to  drop  in  at  Peter  Gergue's  office; 
but  the  best  proof  that  he  was  doing  nothing  to  change  the 
election  lay  in  the  fact  that  Gergue  was  idle.  That  lank 
gentleman  seldom  emerged  from  his  office,  and  when  he  did  so, 
the  fact  that  his  mind  was  free  of  care  was  attested  by  the 
circumstance  that  he  left  his  back  hair  severely  alone.  Gergue 
was  a  Caretall  barometer;  and  all  the  signs  pointed  to  "  fair, 
followed  by  a  probable  depression!  " 

A  lull  settled  over  Hardiston.  Chase  carried  on  his  cam 
paign  regularly  but  without  heat.  He  talked  with  individuals 
on  street  corners  and  with  groups  wherever  he  found  them; 
he  spoke  most  graciously  to  all  who  met  him  on  the  street; 
and  as  the  last  week  before  election  dawned,  he  announced 
two  meetings,  to  which  all  voters  were  invited.  '  They  would 
be  held  in  the  Rink;  otherwise  the  Crescent  Opera  House  — 

50 


THE  RALLY  51 

and  at  these  meetings,  numerous  speakers  would  expound  the 
justice  of  the  Chase  cause.  Chase  himself,  of  course,  would 
be  the  principal  speaker. 

The  first  of  these  meetings  was  held  on  Tuesday  night,  a  week 
before  the  election;  the  second  was  set  for  the  following 
Saturday.  On  Tuesday  afternoon,  Amos  Caretall  and  Chase 
came  face  to  face  in  the  Post  Office;  and  half  a  dozen  people 
saw  them  greet  each  other  pleasantly  and  without  heat.  Chase 
spoke  as  though  he  could  afford  to  be  generous,  Amos  like  a 
man  willing  to  accept  generosity. 

"  I  hope  you'll  come  to  my  meeting  to-night,  Amos,"  Chase 
invited  with  grave  condescension;  and  he  laughed  and  added: 
"  You  might  learn  something  that  would  be  of  value  —  about 
municipal  affairs  — " 

"  I  was  figuring  on  coming,"  said  Amos,  surprisingly  enough. 
It  was  surprising  even  to  Chase;  but  he  hid  this  feeling. 

"Fine,  fine!"  he  declared.  "Amos,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it. 
Partisanship  has  no  place  in  city  affairs." 

"  That's  right,"  Amos  agreed. 

Chase  laughed.  "  If  you  don't  look  out,  I'll  call  on  you  to 
speak  to-night,"  he  threatened. 

Amos  grinned  at  that.  "  I  reckon  I  wouldn't  be  scared," 
he  declared.  "  I've  spoke  before." 

They  parted  with  no  further  word  save  laughing  jests; 
but  when  Chase  turned  toward  his  office,  his  eyes  were  thought 
ful,  and  Amos  watched  his  departing  figure  with  a  faint  smile. 
While  Chase  was  still  in  sight,  Gergue  came  along;  and  he 
spoke  to  Amos  in  his  habitual  low  drawl,  and  received  a  word 
from  Amos  in  reply. 

Gergue  nodded.  "  The  bee'll  keep  a  buzzing  till  he  does 
it,"  he  promised;  and  Amos  chuckled.  He  chuckled  all  that 
day;  but  his  countenance  was  sober  enough  when  he  presented 
himself  at  the  entrance  to  the  Rink  that  night.  He  was  alone; 
and  he  walked  boldly  down  the  aisle,  responding  to  greetings 
on  every  hand,  and  took  a  conspicuous  seat  near  the  front. 

The  curtain  had  been  raised;  and  the  stage  was  set  with  a 
stock  scene  representing  a  farmyard,  or  something  of  the  kind. 
There  was  an  impracticable  well  at  the  right,  in  the  rear; 


52  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

and  at  the  left,  the  kitchen  door  of  the  farmhouse  stood  open 
beneath  an  arborway  of  cardboard  grapevines.  In  the  center 
of  the  stage,  a  table  had  been  set;  upon  it  a  white  pitcher  of 
water  and  a  glass;  and  in  the  semicircle  about  the  table,  half 
a  dozen  chairs.  The  stage  setting  was  not  strikingly  appro 
priate,  but  no  one  save  Amos  gave  it  so  much  as  a  chuckle. 

When  he  had  studied  the  stage,  Amos  turned  to  look  about 
at  the  audience.  The  Rink  was  half  filled;  but  half  of  the 
people  in  it  were  either  women  or  boys  too  young  to  vote.  The 
women  in  Hardiston  were  all  immensely  interested  in  politics; 
and  as  for  the  boys  —  well,  a  boy  loves  a  meeting. 

While  Amos  was  still  studying  the  audience,  Ed  Skinner, 
editor  of  the  weekly  Sun,  appeared  on  the  stage,  walked  to 
the  table,  rapped  on  it  with  a  wooden  mallet  which  had 
obviously  been  designed  for  the  uses  of  carpentry,  and  called 
the  house  to  order.  Amos  settled  in  his  seat  and  the  meeting 
began. 

There  were  four  speakers.  Skinner  talked  first;  he  was 
followed  by  Davy  Morgan,  a  foreman  in  Chase's  furnace;  and 
he  in  turn  gave  way  to  Will  Murchie,  from  up  the  creek, 
who  had  been  elected  Attorney  General  the  year  before,  and 
so  won  the  honor  of  breaking  the  air-tight  Republican  grip 
on  state  offices.  The  testimony  of  these  men  was  unanimously 
to  the  effect  that  Winthrop  Chase,  Senior,  had  the  makings  of 
the  best  Mayor  any  city  in  the  state  ever  saw. 

After  which,  Chase  himself  appeared,  to  prove  the  case 
indisputably. 

Chase  read  his  speech.  He  always  read  his  speeches. 
Murchie  had  written  this  one  for  him;  and  it  was  well  done, 
flowery,  measured,  resounding.  It  was  real  oratory,  even  as 
Chase  rendered  it.  And  Amos,  in  a  front  seat,  was  the  loudest 
of  all  the  audience  in  his  applause.  He  was  so  loud  that  at 
times  he  interrupted  the  speaker;  but  Chase  forgave  him,  beam 
ing  on  Amos  over  the  footlights. 

Abruptly,  Chase  finished  his  speech.  He  finished  it  and 
folded  it  and  put  it  in  his  pocket;  and  every  one  applauded, 
either  from  appreciation  or  relief.  They  applauded  until  they 
saw  —  by  the  fact  that  Chase  still  held  the  stage  without  starting 


THE  RALLY  53 

to  withdraw  —  that  he  had  something  further  to  say.  Then 
they  fell  sulkily  silent. 

"  My  friends,"  said  Chase  then,  beaming  on  them.  "  My 
friends  —  I  thank  you.  I  thank  you  all ;  and  particularly  I 
wish  to  thank  Congressman  Caretall,  down  in  front  here,  who 
has  been  loud  in  his  applause. 

"  That's  a  good  sign.  I'm  glad  he  appreciates  the  fact  that 
it  is  no  use  to  fight  longer.  He  told  me  this  morning 
that  he  was  coming  here  to-night;  and  in  effect  he  dared  me 
to  invite  him  to  speak  to  you  to-night. 

"  My  friends,  I  have  nothing  to  hide.  He  cannot  frighten 
me.  Congressman  Caretall  —  you  have  the  floor !  " 

The  listeners  had  been  apathetic,  bored;  but  they  were  so 
no  longer.  More  of  them  rose,  some  climbed  on  seats  and 
craned  their  necks  the  better  to  see  the  discomfiture  of  the 
Congressman.  They  yelled  at  him:  "Speech!  Sp-e-e-ech!  " 
They  jeered  at  him,  confident  he  would  accept  their  jeers  in 
silence;  and  so  they  were  the  more  delighted  when  he  rose 
lumberingly  in  his  place. 

Every  one  yelled  at  everybody  else  to  sit  down  and  be  quiet. 
Chase  invited  Amos  up  on  the  stage.  Amos  shook  his  head. 
"  I  can  talk  from  here,"  he  roared,  "  if  these  gentlemen  will 
be  seated  so  I  can  look  at  them."  He  spread  his  hands  like 
one  invoking  a  blessing.  "Sit  down!  Sit  down!  " 

They  sat,  rustling  in  their  seats,  grinning,  whispering,  gazing; 
and  Amos  waited  benevolently,  head  on  one  side,  until  they 
were  quiet.  Then  he  spoke. 

"  My  f rien-n-d-s !  "  he  drawled.  "  I  am  honored.  It  is 
an  honor  to  any  man  to  be  asked  to  address  a  Hardiston 
audience.  And  especially  on  such  an  occasion  —  and  in  such 
a  cause. 

"  My  friends,  the  name  of  Chase  is  an  old  one  in  Hardiston. 
A  Chase  was  one  of  the  first  to  settle  at  the  salt  licks  here; 
a  Chase  fought  the  Indians  during  those  first  hot  years;  a  Chase 
dug  salt  wells  when  the  riffles  no  longer  proved  profitable. 
And  when  the  salt  industry  died,  a  Chase  was  the  first  to  dig 
coal  in  this  county,  and  a  Chase  was  the  first  to  establish  an 
iron-smelting  furnace  here  in  Hardiston. 


54  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"The  Chases  have  deserved  well  of  Hardiston.  They  have 
been  honored  in  the  past;  they  will  be  honored  in  the  future. 
But  they  should  also  be  honored  in  the  present. 

"  My  friends,  I  came  here  to  cast  my  vote  in  the  city  election. 
I  came  home  in  some  doubt  as  to  how  I  should  cast  that  vote. 
But  I  am  in  doubt  no  longer,  my  friends. 

"  I  shall  go  to  the  polls  next  Tuesday,  and  I  shall  ask  for 
a  ballot,  and  I  shall  go  into  a  booth;  and  there,  my  friends,  I 
shall  cast  my  vote  for  Mayor. 

"  And  the  man  I  vote  for,  my  friends,  I  tell  you  frankly ;  the 
man  I  vote  for  will  be  —  a  Chase!  " 

The  storm  broke;  and  Amos  bowed  to  it  and  sat  down.  But 
that  would  not  do.  Chase  climbed  down  from  the  stage  to 
shake  him  by  the  hand  and  thank  him;  and  others  crowded 
around  to  do  the  same  thing;  and  still  others  came  crowding 
to  storm  at  him  for  a  traitor.  And  to  them  all  Amos  pre 
sented  a  smiling  and  agreeable  countenance. 

But  this  small  tumult  ended,  as  such  things  will.  The 
crowd  dispersed;  the  Rink  emptied;  and  in  the  end,  Chase  and 
Amos  walked  up  the  street  as  far  as  the  hotel  together,  sep 
arating  there  to  go  to  their  respective  homes. 

Next  morning,  Hardiston  buzzed  with  the  news.  Strangely 
enough,  Amos  did  not  show  himself  in  town.  He  hid  at  home, 
said  his  enemies  —  those  who  had  been  his  friends.  He  hid 
at  home  to  escape  the  storm.  That  was  what  they  said;  but 
it  was  observed,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  that  those  who  went 
to  Amos's  home  to  accuse  him,  came  away  apparently  reconciled 
to  the  Congressman's  course  of  action.  They  made  no  more 
complaint. 

One  of  these  was  Jack  Routt.  Routt  was  an  attorney, 
picking  up  the  beginnings  of  a  practice.  He  had  ambitions. 
Other  men  had  been  prosecuting  attorney,  and  there  was  no 
reason  why  a  man  named  Routt  should  not  hold  that  office.  To 
this  end,  he  had  hitched  his  wagon  to  Amos's  star;  and  he  was 
one  of  the  Congressman's  first  lieutenants. 

Routt  had  not  attended  the  meeting  at  the  Rink.  He  and 
Wint  Chase  spent  the  evening  together.  But  when  he  heard 
what  had  happened,  he  uttered  one  red-hot  ejaculation,  then 


THE  RALLY  55 

clamped  tight  his  lips  and  marched  off  to  find  Amos  and  demand 
an  explanation. 

He  got  it.  It  silenced  him.  It  was  observed  that  he  came 
away  from  the  Caretall  home  with  a  puzzled  frown  twisting 
his  brow  above  the  smile  on  his  lips.  But  he  spoke  not,  neither 
could  word  be  enticed  from  him.  Instead,  he  seemed  to  put 
politics  off  his  shoulders,  and  attached  himself,  like  a  guardian 
angel,  to  Wint. 

That  was  Wednesday.  Wednesday  evening,  Wint  and  Routt 
and  Agnes  Caretall  spent  at  Joan  Arnold's  home,  playing  cards. 
Thursday,  the  four  were  again  together,  but  this  time  at  the 
Caretall  home.  Friday  evening,  Routt  and  Wint  played  pool 
at  the  hotel.  Saturday  evening  they  went  together  to  the 
Chase  rally  at  the  Rink.  It  was  a  jubilant  gathering;  the 
speakers  were  exultant;  and  the  elder  Chase,  again  the  speaker 
of  the  evening,  was  calm  and  paternally  promising. 

Sunday,  the  four  went  picnicking  in  Agnes  CaretalPs  car. 
And  it  was  not  until  Monday  evening  that  Wint  broke  away 
from  Routt's  chaperonage.  He  spent  that  evening  —  it  was  the 
eve  of  election  day  —  with  Joan. 

They  were  very  happy  together. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HETTY   MORFEE 

IN  the  meanwhile,  a  single  incident.  An  incident  con 
cerning  itself  with  Hetty  Morfee,  Mrs.  Chase's  newly 
acquired  handmaiden. 

Hetty  was  a  girl  Wint's  own  age.  She  had  been  born  in 
Hardiston,  had  lived  in  Hardiston  all  her  life.  She  and  Wint 
had  gone  to  school  together;  they  had  played  together;  they 
had  been  friends  all  their  lives. 

Such  things  happen  in  a  small  town.  Wint  was  the  son  of 
Hardiston's  big  man;  Hetty  was  the  daughter  of  a  man  whom 
nobody  remembered.  He  had  come  to  town,  married  Hetty's 
mother,  and  gone  away.  Thereafter,  Hetty  had  been  born. 

Hetty's  mother  was  the  fifth  daughter  of  a  coal  miner.  She 
was  an  honest  woman,  a  woman  of  sense  and  sensibility;  and 
Hetty  received  from  her  a  worthy  heritage.  But  most  of  Hetty 
was  not  mother  but  father;  and  all  Hardiston  knew  about 
Hetty's  father  was  that  he  had  come  and  had  gone.  It  was 
assumed,  fairly  enough,  that  he  had  a  roving,  rascally,  and 
irresponsible  disposition.  Hetty,  it  had  been  predicted,  would 
not  turn  out  well. 

This  prediction  had  not  wholly  justified  itself.  Hetty,  in 
the  first  place,  was  unnaturally  acute  of  mind.  In  school,  she 
had  mastered  the  lessons  given  her  with  careless  ease.  The 
effect  was  to  give  her  an  unwholesome  amount  of  leisure.  She 
occupied  this  leisure  in  bedeviling  her  teachers  and  inciting 
to  riot  the  hardier  spirits  in  the  school  —  among  whom  number 
Wint. 

She  was,  in  those  days,  a  wiry  little  thing,  as  hard  as  nails, 
as  active  as  a  boy,  and  fully  as  daring.  She  had  whipped  one 
or  two  boys  in  fair,  stand-up  fight,  for  Hetty  had  a  temper  that 
went  with  her  hair.  Her  hair,  as  has  been  said,  was  a  pleasant 
and  interesting  red. 

As  a  child,  she  had  been  freckled.  When  she  approached 

56 


HETTY  MORFEE  57 

womanhood,  these  freckles  disappeared  and  left  her  with  a 
skin  creamy  and  delicious.  Her  eyes  were  large,  and  warm, 
and  merry.  They  were  probably  brown;  it  was  hard  to  be 
sure.  All  in  all,  she  was  —  give  her  a  chance  —  a  beauty. 

Some  men  of  science  assert  that  all  healthy  children  start 
life  with  an  equal  heritage.  They  attribute  to  environment 
the  developing  differences  between  men  and  between  women. 
Hetty  might  have  served  them  as  an  illuminating  example.  In 
school,  she  had  mastered  her  lessons  quickly,  had  led  her 
classes  as  of  right;  while  her  schoolmates  —  including  Wint, 
who  was  not  good  at  books  —  lagged  woefully  behind. 

This  ascendancy  persisted  through  the  first  half  dozen 
years  of  schooling;  and  then  it  began,  gradually,  to  disappear. 
In  high  school,  it  was  not  so  marked;  and  at  graduation,  she 
and  Wint  —  for  example  —  were  fairly  on  a  par. 

Then  Wint  went  to  college  while  Hetty  went  to  work.  She 
worked  first  in  a  store  and  lost  that  place  for  swearing  at 
her  employer.  Then  she  took  up  housework,  and  so  gravitated 
to  the  Chase  household.  There  Wint  encountered  her;  and 
within  a  day  or  so  he  discovered  that  the  years  since  high 
school  had  borne  him  far  ahead  of  Hetty.  She  now  was 
beginning  to  recede;  her  wave  had  reached  its  height  and  was 
subsiding.  He  still  bore  on. 

These  things  may  be  observed  more  intimately  in  a  small 
town;  for  there,  social  differences  do  not  so  strictly  herd  the 
sheep  apart  from  the  goats.  Thus,  while  Hetty  was  his 
mother's  handmaid,  neither  Wint  nor  any  one  else  outspokenly 
considered  her  his  inferior.  She  called  him  Wint,  he  called 
her  Hetty,  and  his  mother  likewise. 

Wint  found  her  presence  vaguely  disturbing.  That  first 
night  at  supper,  she  had  winked  at  him  behind  his  father's 
back.  The  wink  somewhat  chilled  him.  It  savored  of  hard 
ness —  And  there  were  other  incidents.  Wint  perceived  that 
Hetty  was  no  longer  a  schoolgirl;  she  was,  vaguely,  sophis 
ticated.  Her  old  recklessness  and  daring  remained;  but  they 
were  inspired  now  not  by  ebullient  spirits  but  by  indifference, 
by  bravado. 

He  remembered  ugly  rumors  .  .  . 


58  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Wint  and  Hetty  had  been,  to  some  extent,  comrades  in  their 
school  days.  Once  or  twice  he  had  defended  her  against 
aggression;  once  he  had  fought  a  boy  who  had  told  tales  on 
her  to  the  teacher.  Hetty  had  never  thanked  him;  she  had 
even  scolded  and  abused  him  for  this  knight-errantry,  declaring 
her  ability  to  take  care  of  herself.  Nevertheless,  there  was 
gratitude  in  her.  She  brought  him  apples,  hiding  them  secretly 
in  his  desk. 

On  the  Friday  evening  before  election,  as  has  been  said,  Wint 
and  Jack  Routt  played  pool  together  at  the  hotel.  Afterwards, 
in  spite  of  Routt's  protests,  they  went  together  to  the  stairway 
in  the  alley;  and  when  eventually  Wint  reached  home,  he  was 
unsteady  on  his  feet. 

His  father  and  mother  were  abed.  The  door  was  never 
locked,  so  that  he  entered  the  hall  without  difficulty;  but  the 
only  light  was  an  electric  bulb  in  the  rear  of  the  hall,  near 
the  kitchen  door,  and  when  he  went  back  to  extinguish  this, 
he  tripped  over  a  rug  and  barely  saved  a  fall. 

While  he  was  still  tottering,  the  kitchen  door  opened  and 
Hetty  looked  out  at  him.  She  had  on  her  hat,  so  that  he 
saw  she,  too,  had  just  come  in.  He  smiled  at  her  amiably, 
holding  on  to  the  wall  for  support;  and  she  laughed  softly  and 
came  and  caught  his  arm. 

"Oh,  you  Wint!  "  she  chided. 

He  tried  to  be  dignified.  "  Wha's  matter?  "  he  asked.  "  I'm 
all  right." 

She  winked.     "  But  if  father  could  only  see  you  now !  " 

He  became  amiable  again.  "  Thass  all  right,"  he  declared, 
"  I'm  going  to  bed.  He's  sleeping  th'  sleep  of  th'  just.  Thass 
dad.  Sleep  of  the  just!  " 

"  Sure,"  she  agreed.  "  But  you  know  what  he'd  do  to 
you." 

A  door  opened,  in  the  hall  above.  A  step  sounded.  Hetty, 
quick  as  light,  led  Wint  under  the  stair  where  he  was  invisible 
from  above,  and  signed  him  to  be  quiet.  The  elder  Chase 
called  down  the  stairs:  "Who's  that?  " 

"  Me,  Mr.  Chase,"  said  Hetty.  "  I  tripped.  I'm  sorry  if  I 
woke  you  up." 


HETTY  MORFEE  59 

She  heard  Chase  say  something  under  his  breath;  but  when 
he  answered,  his  tone  was  affable.  "  All  right.  Time  you 
were  abed,  Hetty." 

"  Uh-huh !     I  went  to  see  my  mother." 

"  That's  all  right.     Good  night!  " 

"Good  night!" 

They  heard  him  go  back  to  his  room,  heard  the  door  close 
behind  him.  Hetty  crossed  to  Wint.  She  was  trembling  a 
little,  and  she  spoke  very  gently.  "  Come  up  the  back  stairs, 
Wint.  He  won't  hear  you.  I'll  help  you.  .  .  ." 

Wint  took  her  arm.  "  You're  a  good  girl,  Hetty,"  he  told 
her. 

"  You  come  along." 

They  went  through  the  kitchen  to  the  back  stairs,  and  up, 
Hetty  steadying  him  and  encouraging  him  in  a  whisper.  Wint's 
room  was  at  the  back  of  the  house,  on  the  second  floor;  his 
father's  at  the  front.  Hetty's  was  on  the  third  floor.  She 
helped  him  to  the  door  of  his  room,  and  in,  and  turned  on  the 
light.  He  sat  down  and  grinned  amiably  at  her.  She  started 
to  go,  hesitated,  came  back  and  knelt  before  him.  While  he 
watched,  not  fully  understanding,  she  loosened  his  shoes.  Then 
she  rose. 

"  Now  you  go  to  bed,  Wint  —  and  be  quiet,"*  she  warned  him 
in  a  whisper.  "Good  night!  " 

He  waved  his  hand.     "  Thass  all  right  now.     G'night!  " 

She  closed  the  door  behind  her  and  went  swiftly  along  the 
hall  to  the  stair  that  led  upward  to  her  room.  But  there,  with 
her  foot  on  the  lower  step,  her  hand  on  the  rail,  she  paused. 

She  paused,  and  looked  back  at  Wint's  door,  and  pressed 
one  hand  against  her  mouth,  thinking.  And  slowly  her  eyes 
misted  with  a  wistful  light.  She  turned  a  little,  as  though  to 
go  back.  .  .  . 

Then,  eyes  still  misty,  she  went  up  the  stairs  to  her  own 
room;  and  in  her  own  room,  with  no  one  to  see,  Hetty  lay  down 
on  her  face  on  the  bed  and  cried. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   ELECTION 

THE  people  of  Hardiston  are  early  risers,  and  their  hours 
of  labor  are  long  and  strenuous.  The  coal  miners  — 
what  few  still  find  tasks  to  do  in  the  ravaged  hills 
—  are  up  and  about  before  day  in  the  fall  and  winter 
months;  the  furnace  workmen  change  shifts  at  unearthly  hours; 
and  the  glass  factory  and  the  pipe  works  both  begin  their  day 
when  most  folks  are  still  abed. 

To  accommodate  these  early  risers,  the  polls  at  Hardiston 
open  at  six.  They  stay  open  until  four  or  five  or  six  in  the 
afternoon.  The  hour  is  left  somewhat  to  the  discretion  of  the 
election  officials.  If  a  heavy  vote  is  cast  early,  so  that  an  extra 
hour  would  mean  only  half  a  dozen  votes  added  to  the  totals, 
they  close  the  polls  and  begin  their  counting  in  time  to  get 
home  to  supper. 

But  if  there  is  prospect  of  a  close  contest,  the  polls  remain 
open  till  the  last  voter  has  been  given  his  opportunity. 

On  this  election  day,  the  polls  opened  at  six;  and  the  election 
officials,  particularly  those  representing  the  supporters  of  the 
elder  Chase,  went  about  their  duties  with  a  careless  confidence. 
In  the  second  precinct,  the  polling  place  was  an  unoccupied 
store  on  the  second  floor  of  a  two-story  building  at  the  corner 
of  Pearl  Street  and  Broadway.  The  lower  floor  of  this  building 
was  occupied  by  a  dealer  in  monuments;  and  throughout  the 
day  the  chink  and  tap  of  his  chisel  and  maul  never  ceased  their 
song.  These  sounds  came  up  in  a  muffled  fashion  through  the 
floor  of  the  room  where  the  votes  were  being  cast. 

The  early  voting  here  was  light.  Jim  Thomas  and  Ed  Howe 
were  the  principal  election  officers;  and  they  sat  with  their  chairs 
tilted  back  and  their  feet  on  the  railing  around  a  red-hot  little 
iron  stove  while  the  trickle  of  voters  came  and  went.  Jim 

60 


THE  ELECTION  61 

Thomas  chewed  tobacco,  and  Ed  smoked.  He  smoked  a  pipe; 
and  he  whittled  his  tobacco  from  a  black  plug,  thus  identifying 
himself  with  the  Caretall  factions.  Aside  from  the  stove  and 
their  two  chairs,  the  room  contained  only  the  voting  parapher 
nalia.  Three  booths  against  the  wall,  with  cloth  curtains  to 
divide  them;  two  flat  tables,  each  containing  a  list  of  the 
registered  voters;  and  the  ballot  box  itself,  on  the  floor  near 
the  door  where  each  voter  deposited  his  ballot  as  he  departed. 

At  seven  o'clock  —  the  little  stove,  by  this  time,  had  raised 
the  temperature  of  the  room  to  a  stifling  mark  —  Jim  Thomas 
spat  in  a  box  of  sawdust  and  grinned  at  Ed  Howe.  "  Slow, 
Ed,"  he  said. 

Ed  puffed  hard.  He  had  a  weakness  of  one  eye,  a  weakness 
which  allowed  the  lid  to  droop  so  that  he  seemed  to  be  perpet 
ually  winking.  He  turned  this  winking  eye  to  Jim.  "  Yeah," 
he  said. 

"  I  guess  Caretall  is  due  to  get  his." 

"You  reckon?  "  Ed  inquired  listlessly. 

"  I  reckon." 

Ed  grunted  and  smoked  harder  than  ever. 

At  half  past  seven,  the  elder  Chase  himself  dropped  in. 
"  Good  morning,  boys,"  he  called  from  the  door.  "  Splendid 
day,  now  isn't  it?  " 

"  Fine,"  said  Jim  Thomas. 

Chase  produced  cigars;  he  dispensed  them  graciously.  Only 
Ed  Howe  refused  the  proffered  smoke. 

"  Oh,  come,  Ed,"  Chase  insisted.  "  Don't  be  afraid  of  hurting 
my  feelings." 

"  Never  smoke  'em,"  said  Ed  shortly. 

"  Want  to  vote  once  or  twice?  "  Jim  Thomas  asked,  grinning. 

Chase  chuckled.  "  I've  cast  my  vote.  Second  ballot  in  my 
precinct,  Jim." 

"  Better  chuck  in  a  few  more,"  Jim  advised.  "  Hollow's 
running  strong."  He  said  this  seriously,  but  every  one  knew 
it  was  a  joke.  Even  Ed  Howe  grinned. 

Chase  presently  departed,  still  amiable  and  gracious.  His 
visit  had  stimulated  the  imagination  of  Jim  Thomas;  and  after 
a  little  while  he  rose  and  took  his  hat  and  went  down  to  a  group 


62  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

of  men  in  the  street  outside.  Ed  looked  out  of  the  window  curi 
ously.  He  saw  Jim  go  among  the  group,  hat  in  hand,  obviously 
taking  up  a  collection.  The  man  seemed  to  take  the  matter  as 
a  joke.  But  Jim  was  grave. 

He  came  back  up  presently,  hat  in  hand,  and  approached  Ed. 
"  Give  up,  Ed,"  he  invited.  "  A  penny,  a  nickel,  any  little 
thing." 

Ed  looked  in  the  hat.  He  saw  a  button,  a  burnt  match,  a 
pebble,  and  a  slice  of  tobacco.  He  grunted  and  puffed  at  his 
pipe.  "  Set  down,  Jim,"  he  invited.  "  Heat's  touched  your 
head." 

Jim  explained,  in  a  hurt  tone:  "No,  Ed,  not  a  bit.  Only  — 
some  of  the  boys  thought  we'd  take  up  a  collection  and  send 
downstairs  for  a  tombstone  for  Hollow." 

Ed  swung  his  head  slowly  and  looked  at  Jim;  and  a  slow 
grin  broke  across  his  countenance.  "  I  declare,"  he  commented, 
"  you're  a  real  joker,  Jim."  Then  he  laughed  a  cackling  laugh, 
wagged  his  head,  and  fell  into  silence  again. 

The  second  precinct  was  the  most  important  in  Hardiston. 
Its  voters  numbered  half  as  many  again  as  its  next  rival.  And  so 
the  candidates  gave  it  more  than  its  share  of  attention  that  day. 
Chase  came  early  and  often.  Each  time  he  disseminated  cigars 
and  amiability.  This  was  his  day  of  glory;  and  he  ate  it  with 
a  relish,  visibly  smacking  his  lips. 

Caretall  and  Gergue  came  together  about  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  Amos  had  very  little  to  say.  He  glanced  at  the 
voting  lists,  nodded  to  Ed  Howe,  called  a  greeting  to  Jim 
Thomas  and  departed.  Peter  Gergue  remained  for  a  time, 
scratching  the  back  of  his  head  and  talking  with  those  who 
came  to  vote. 

Amos  came  back  at  noon,  and  as  it  happened,  he  met  V. 
R.  Kite  at  the  voting  place.  Kite  voted  in  this  precinct,  and 
he  had  just  deposited  his  ballot  when  Amos  arrived.  The 
two  men  greeted  each  other  amiably.  Amos  said:  "Morning, 
Mr.  Kite." 

"  Good  morning,  Congressman." 

"  Just  voting?  " 

"  Yes.     Overslept." 


THE  ELECTION  63 

Amos  winked.     "  I  trust  you  voted  right,  V.  R." 

Kite  nodded  briskly.  "Right  as  rain,  Congressman.  You 
too?  " 

"  Sure." 

Jim  Thomas  listened  with  frank  interest.  Now  he  found  an 
opening  for  his  joke.  "You'd  better  drop  in  a  few  votes  here, 
Congressman.  Chase  is  running  strong." 

Amos  looked  at  him  with  interest.     "  You  don't  say,  Jim?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"Well  —  how  do  you  know,  Jim?  " 

Thomas  became  faintly  confused.     "  Oh,  I  can  tell." 

"  You  ain't  been  looking  at  the  ballots,  have  you,  Jim?  " 

Jim  blustered.     "  Look-a-here —  who  you  accusing?" 

"You  ain't?  Then  you  must  be  one  of  these  mediums  that 
can  read  a  folded  paper." 

"Oh,  sugar!     You  go  .  .  ." 

Amos  grinned.  "Matter  of  fact,  Jim,  I  wish  I  knowed  you 
was  right.  I'm  frank  to  say,  Jim,  that  I  got  a  bet  on  a  horse 
named  Chase  to  win."  Jim  gasped,  and  Amos  nodded  soberly. 
"  Yes,  sir,  Jim.  You  just  hear  me." 

Jim  took  a  plug  of  tobacco  from  his  pocket  and  tore  at  it 
with  his  teeth  and  stuffed  it  away  again.  The  operation  restored 
his  composure.  "Well,  Congressman,  you'd  ought  not  to  bet 
—  and  you  a  lawmaker." 

"  It  ain't  rightly  a  bet,  Jim,"  said  Amos.  "  It's  a  sure  thing." 
He  turned  toward  the  door.  "  Good  aft'noon,  Jim." 

The  voting,  beginning  slow,  had  picked  up  during  the  noon 
hour.  A  steady  stream  of  men  came  in  throughout  that  period 
and  when  this  stream  subsided,  four-fifths  of  the  registered 
voters  had  cast  their  ballots.  Ed  Howe  suggested :  "  Might  as 
well  close  up  shop  at  four,  hadn't  we,  Jim?  " 

"  Sure,"  said  Jim.  "  They  ain't  no  real  contest  to-day 
anyway." 

"I  reckon  that's  right,"  Ed  agreed. 

This  was  a  quarter  before  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  At 
two  o'clock,  Caretall  and  Chase  came  face  to  face  at  the  door 
of  the  voting  room.  They  came  in  arm  in  arm;  and  Chase 
asked  graciously:  "Well,  boys,  how  are  things  going?" 


64  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Jim  Thomas  reported  briskly,  "  Fine,  Mr.  Chase.  Most  of 
the  votes  in.  Ed  and  me's  figuring  to  close  at  four." 

Chase  nodded.  "  I  guess  that's  safe.  Don't  you  think  so, 
Amos?  " 

"  Whatever  you  say,  Chase,"  Amos  agreed.  "  Looks  to  me 
like  the  fight's  all  over." 

It  was  observed  at  that  time,  however,  that  Congressman 
Caretall  was  strangely  buoyant  for  a  beaten  man. 

Chase  and  Caretall  separated  at  the  door,  and  Jim  Thomas 
called  to  Ed  Howe:  "I'm  going  uptown  and  get  me  some 
dinner.  I  ain't  ate  yet." 

"  Go  along,"  Ed  agreed. 

Jim  went  along,  overtaking  the  elder  Chase,  and  they  walked 
together  along  Pearl  Street  and  up  Main  to  the  restau 
rant.  Chase  was  quietly  contented  and  exceedingly  cour 
teous  and  gracious  to  those  whom  they  encountered;  and  for 
the  first  half  of  the  journey,  Jim  basked  in  the  great  man's 
smile. 

It  was  at  the  corner  of  Main  Street  that  the  first  fly  dropped 
into  Jim's  ointment.  As  they  turned  the  corner,  they  encoun 
tered  three  men.  One  was  V.  R.  Kite;  another  was  old  Thomp 
son,  crippled  with  rheumatism  but  fat  with  wealth,  and  a 
lifelong  enemy  of  Chase;  and  the  third  was  Thompson's  son, 
the  shoe  man. 

Chase  said :  "  Good  afternoon,  gentlemen,"  to  these  men. 
Kite  responded:  "Afternoon!"  Old  Thompson  grunted;  and 
young  Thompson  said:  "How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Chase?  "  with 
entirely  too  much  sweet  deference  in  his  tones.  They  passed 
the  group,  but  when  they  had  gone  twenty  yards,  something 
prompted  Jim  Thomas  to  look  around,  and  he  detected  the 
elder  Thompson  in  the  act  of  smiting  his  knee  in  a  paroxysm 
of  silent  and  malignant  mirth. 

Right  then,  Jim  Thomas  smelled  a  rat.  He  looked  up 
at  Chase,  but  Chase  was  blind  and  deaf.  Jim  started  to  speak, 
then  thought  better  of  it;  and  at  the  next  corner,  he  left  his 
chieftain  and  turned  aside  to  the  restaurant. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  Sam  O'Brien,  the  fat  proprietor  of  the 
place,  grinned  at  him  when  he  entered.  He  ordered  a  veal 


THE  ELECTION  65 

sandwich,  and  when  it  was  ready  for  him,  he  doused  it  with 
mustard  and  ate  it  with  sips  of  cold  water  between  each  mouth 
ful.  It  was  delicious,  but  his  stomach  was  uneasy  under  it. 

Sam  was  frankly  grinning  at  him;  and  so  Jim  asked  at  length, 
in  some  desperation:  "What's  the  joke,  Sam?  " 

Sam  shook  his  head.     "  How's  the  election  going,  Jim?  " 

"  All  Chase." 

Sam  threw  back  his  head.  He  was  a  fat  man,  and  the  mirth 
billowed  out  of  him.  He  rocked,  he  slapped  his  knee.  "  All 
Chase!  "  he  gasped.  "  All  Chase!  Oh,  Jim!  Oh,  Jimmy  man! 
All  Chase!"  He  wiped  tears  from  his  eyes.  "Jim,  you'll 
kill  me!  " 

Jim  snorted.  He  was  thoroughly  disturbed.  Sam  was  a 
man  whose  finger  touched  the  public  pulse.  Obviously,  he 
knew  something.  Jim  leaned  across  the  counter.  "  What's 
the  joke,  Sam?  Come  on  —  let  me  laugh,  too." 

Sam  waved  his  fat  hands  at  his  customer.  "  You  go  away, 
Jim.  You  go  'way.  You'll  kill  me." 

His  chortles  pursued  Jim  to  the  street.  There  Thomas  paused, 
irresolute.  What  was  he  going  to  do?  Warn  Chase?  Warn 
Chase's  cohorts?  But  what  should  he  warn  them  about?  He 
remembered  suddenly  that  his  place  was  beside  the  ballot  box, 
and  he  turned  and  fairly  ran  down  the  street  to  the  voting  rooms. 
And  it  seemed  to  him  that,  as  he  sped,  mirth  pursued  him. 

But  he  found  everything  as  he  left  it.  Ed  Howe  still  sat 
by  the  stove,  still  smoked.  He  looked  up  as  Jim  entered,  and 
shifted  his  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

"  Why,  Jim !  "  he  exclaimed  in  pretended  dismay.  "  You're 
all  het  up !  You're  all  of  a  stew !  Jim  —  have  you  gone  and 
seen  a  ghost?  " 

Jim  Thomas  glared  at  him.  He  had  gone  away  from  this 
place  confident  and  calm;  he  returned  in  a  turmoil  of  fear; 
and  the  worst  of  this  fear  was  that  he  did  not  know  what  it 
was  he  feared.  He  glared  at  Howe. 

"  What  you  been  up  to  whilst  I  was  gone,  Ed  Howe?  "  he 
demanded. 

Ed  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "  We-ell  —  I've  smoked  two 
pipes." 


66  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Jim  strode  to  the  ballot  box,  shook  it,  stared  into  its  slot 
as  though  to  read  its  secret. 

Ned  Bentley  came  in.  He  wished  to  cast  his  vote,  and 
proceeded  to  do  so.  As  he  was  about  to  go,  he  paused  for  a 
moment  on  the  threshold. 

"  Has  anybody  here  seen  Wint?  "  he  asked. 

It  was  the  stressing  of  his  words  that  startled  Jim.  This 
stress,  the  emphasis  of  the  verb,  suggested  that  they  had  been 
discussing  Wint,  or  that  Wint  must  be  in  all  their  thoughts. 
And  Jim  had  not  thought  of  Wint  Chase  for  days. 

"  Why  should  we  have  seen  Wint?  "  he  demanded,  and  looked 
at  Ed  Howe.  Ed  was  grinning. 

Of  a  sudden,  light  burst  on  Jim  Thomas.  It  was  not  all  the 
triiih  that  he  guessed.  But  it  was  enough  of  it  to  make  his 
head  swim.  Without  a  word,  he  leaped  for  the  street  and  ran 
across  to  the  hotel  —  where  there  was  a  telephone. 

Ed  Howe  watched  him  go  —  and  grinned.  "  I  declare  — 
Jim  acts  right  crazy,"  he  drawled. 

Jim  came  back  presently,  a  grim  set  about  his  jaw.  He  had 
no  word  for  any  of  them.  But  he  went  to  the  voting  list 
and  copied  the  names  of  those  citizens  who  had  not  yet  voted, 
and  went  to  the  telephone  again.  When  he  returned  this  time, 
it  was  five  minutes  to  four  o'clock. 

Ed  lounged  up  from  his  chair.  "Well  —  we've  'greed  to 
close  the  polls  now.  Go  to  counting  .  .  ."  He  started  for 
the  door,  as  though  to  bolt  it. 

Jim  Thomas  sprang  in  front  of  him.  Jim  was  mad.  "  Git 
back  there,  Ed  Howe." 

Ed  looked  puzzled.     "Why  — what— " 

"Yo're  tricky;  but  you  ain't  won  yet.  Set  down.  Legal 
hour  for  closing  is  six.  We'll  have  some  law  here." 

"  But  we  'greed  on  four  .  .  ." 

"Shut  up!" 

Ed  lounged  back  in  his  chair.  "  Well  —  in  that  case  —  I 
got  time  for  another  smoke."  He  filled  his  pipe  and  began  it. 

There  followed  a  hectic  two  hours.  Hardiston  had  never 
seen  anything  like  it,  anything  even  approaching  it. 

Every    automobile   that    could   be   mustered   by   the   Chase 


THE  ELECTION  67 

forces  was  mustered.  Every  livery  stable  in  town  hitched  up 
its  most  ramshackle  team.  Even  the  funeral  hacks  were  pressed 
into  service.  Fenney's  motor  truck  brought  two  loads  of  men 
from  the  glass  factory.  Even  Bob  Dyer's  old  tandem  bicycle 
came  into  use. 

And  when  the  elder  Chase  met  Congressman  Caretall  in  front 
of  the  Post  Office  at  half  past  five,  he  refused  to  speak  to  him. 

It  was  open  war,  with  no  quarter  asked  or  given.  The  joke 
was  out,  and  the  Congressman's  men  were  enjoying  it  in 
anticipation.  They  exulted  openly ;  they  gathered  at  the  polling 
places  to  watch  the  voters  whom  the  Chase  workers  dragged 
thither.  They  cheered  these  workers  on,  praised  them,  en 
couraged  them,  made  bets  on  their  success. 

It  was  a  hectic  two  hours,  and  it  lived  long  in  Hardiston 
annals.  But  it  had  to  end. 

When  the  town  clock  struck  six,  the  polls  closed.  And  at 
every  precinct  in  town,  the  strain  relaxed  and  took,  forthwith, 
the  form  of  hunger.  Unanimously,  the  election  officials  sat 
down  with  the  unopened  ballot  boxes  on  a  table,  in  plain 
view  of  the  world,  and  sent  out  for  supper. 

Around  the  ballot  boxes,  they  ate  their  sandwiches.  Jim 
Thomas  ate  in  grim  silence,  iron-jawed  and  moody.  Ed  Howe 
had  recovered  his  spirits.  He  was  urbane,  gracious.  He  even 
gave  a  fair  imitation  of  the  manner  of  the  elder  Chase,  at 
which  all  but  Jim  Thomas  managed  to  smile. 

In  the  morning,  Jim  had  been  jubilant  and  Ed  had  been 
moody  and  still;  but  now  the  roles  were  reversed.  It  was 
remarked  afterward  that  no  one  had  guessed  Ed  Howe  had  it 
in  him;  and  his  imitation  of  the  elder  Chase  distributing  cigars 
was  destined  to  make  him  famous. 

But  this  had  to  end,  too.  There  came  a  time  when  the  ballot 
boxes  had  to  be  opened.  The  tally  sheets  were  prepared,  pencils 
were  sharpened,  the  boxes  were  unlocked;  and  at  a  quarter 
past  eight  o'clock,  Jim  Thomas  lifted  the  first  ballot  from  the 
box  and  unfolded  it. 

He  looked  at  it;  and  a  red  flood  poured  over  his  face,  and  his 
jaw  stiffened.  But  it  was  his  duty  to  call  the  vote,  and  he 
called  it: 


68  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"For  Mayor  — Chase!  " 

He  was  still  staring  at  the  ballot,  and  it  did  not  need  Ed 
Howe's  mild  question  to  confirm  his  guess  at  Congressman 
Caretall's  coup. 

What  Ed  asked  was  simply:     "  Which  Chase,  Jim?  " 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  NOTIFICATION 

WHERE  was  Wint?  Others  beside  Bentley  were 
asking  that  question,  as  the  afternoon  of  election 
wore  along.  Where  was  Wint? 

No  one  had  seen  him.  Every  one  was  asking  the  question. 
No  one  was  answering.  But  the  inquirers,  casting  back  and 
forth  along  the  trail,  at  length  hit  upon  one  fact.  Wint,  for 
days  past,  had  been  consistently  in  the  company  of  Jack  Routt. 

Where,  then,  was  Routt? 

On  the  morning  after  Amos  Caretall's  announcement  at  the 
Rink  that  he  would  vote  for  a  Chase  for  Mayor,  Jack  Routt 
had  gone  to  the  Congressman  with  questions  on  his  lips.  He 
had  come  away  with  instructions,  instructions  to  keep  much  in 
Wint's  company  and  to  keep  the  young  man  out  of  harm's  way 
till  election  day. 

He  had  done  this  zealously.  Until  Monday  evening,  he  and 
Wint  were  almost  constantly  together.  That  evening,  Wint 
went  to  Joan's  house,  and  bluntly  rebuffed  Jack's  offer  to 
accompany  him.  But  when  Wint  came  out  —  and  he  came  out 
in  a  sulky  and  defiant  manner  —  Jack  was  waiting  for  him  at 
the  gate. 

Jack  did  not  appear  to  be  waiting.  He  seemed  to  be  merely 
passing,  on  his  way  downtown;  and  Wint  hailed  him. 

"Hello  — you!" 

"Hello,  Wint!     Just  going  home?  " 

"Home?     It's  early  yet.     Going  uptown?  " 

"Yes."  Routt  hesitated,  as  though  confused.  "I  — we  — 
I'm  going  up  to  get  a  prescription  filled." 

Wint  laughed.     "  For  snake  bite?  " 

"  Oh,  no.     A  real  prescription." 

"You  don't  say!" 

69 


70  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Jack  protested.     "  Sure.     So  —  good  night." 

Wint  thrust  his  arm  through  the  other's.  "What  do  you 
want  to  get  rid  of  me  for?  I'll  walk  up  with  you." 

Jack  balked.  "  Oh,  now,  Wint  —  you  —  your  father  will  be 
down  on  you.  You  ought  to  cut  it  out,  Wint.  There's  nothing 
in  it  for  you.  You  never  know  when  to  stop!  " 

Wint  stiffened  sulkily,  but  his  voice  was  gentle.  "  That's 
tough!  Too  bad  about  me!  And  it's  a  shame  what  dad  will 
do  to  me,  now  isn't  it?  "  He  took  a  step  forward.  "  Coming, 
Jack?  " 

So  they  departed  together. 

At  daylight,  the  elder  Chase,  arising  early  to  go  to  the  polls, 
met  Routt.  Jack  was  homeward  bound;  and  he  was  a  weary 
young  man.  Wint  was  not  with  him.  They  exchanged  greet 
ings,  but  no  more. 

Routt  did  not  again  appear  in  public  until  something  after 
noon,  election  day.  When  he  came  downtown  then,  he  was  as 
spruce  as  ever,  his  eyes  clear,  and  his  cheeks  pink  with  health. 
He  showed  no  signs  of  the  —  fatigue  that  the  elder  Chase  had 
remarked  in  him. 

Forthwith,  men  began  to  ask  him:  "Where  is  Wint?  " 

The  first  man  that  put  the  question  was  Peter  Gergue.  This 
was  a  big  day  for  Peter.  He  had  been  busy,  whispering  and 
advising  and  suggesting  and  laughing  a  little  behind  the  back 
of  the  elder  Chase.  He  had  been  too  busy  getting  out  the 
votes  and  directing  the  voters  to  think  much  about  Wint  until 
Jack  appeared;  but  the  sight  of  Jack  reminded  him  of  Wint;  and 
so  he  asked: 

"  Where  is  Wint,  anyway?  " 

Jack  looked  to  right  and  left.     "  I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

Gergue  drawled:   "It's  your  job  to  know." 

"  I  know  it  is.     But  —  he  got  away  from  me." 

"  Got  away  from  you?  " 

"Yes.     Last  night.     I  couldn't  stop  him." 

Gergue  frowned  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  back  hair. 

"  It  was  your  job  to  stop  him." 

Jack  threw  out  his  hands.  "You  never  saw  him  when  he's 
going  good." 


THE  NOTIFICATION  71 

Peter  nodded  and  spat.  "No,"  he  said  slowly.  "No  — 
that's  right.  Where  d'you  say  you  left  him?  " 

Routt  shook  his  head.  "  I  wish  I  knew.  He  dodged 
me  .  .  ." 

Gergue  shook  his  head.  "  Go  along.  Don't  let  'em  see  you 
talking  —  too  much." 

As  the  afternoon  passed  and  especially  after  that  final  two 
hours  of  scurry  and  effort  began,  the  inquiries  for  Wint 
increased  in  volume.  But  at  six  o'clock  Wint  was  still  listed 
as  missing,  and  he  was  still  missing  at  eight,  and  he  was  still 
missing  when  the  count  of  the  ballots  was  completed. 

But  fifteen  minutes  later,  Skinny  Marsh,  a  man  without  visible 
means  of  support,  met  V.  R.  Kite  on  the  street  and  drew  him 
into  the  dark  mouth  of  an  alleyway. 

"  Kite,"  he  said  huskily,  "  I  got  something  to  tell  you." 

"What  is  it?  "  V.  R.  asked  crisply. 

"You  know  where  Wint  is?  " 

"No.     Do   you?" 

"Yes." 

Kite  was  interested  enough  now.     "  Where?  " 

Marsh  told  him;  and  ten  seconds  later,  Kite  was  walking 
briskly  up  the  street,  gathering  his  clans. 

In  the  valley  on  the  northeast  side  of  Hardiston,  there  is  a 
network  of  railway  tracks,  the  freight  and  coal  yards  of  the 
D.  T.  &  I.  Acres  of  ground  are  covered  with  slack,  deposited 
through  many  years,  and  sprinkled  over  with  the  cinders  from 
a  thousand  puffing  engines. 

This  is  low  land.  At  one  spot,  a  stagnant  pool  forms  every 
year,  and  furnishes  some  ragged  skating  for  the  children  of 
the  locality.  The  ice  factory  is  on  a  hill  above  this  pool.  At 
the  other  end  of  the  yards,  there  is  a  gaunt  and  ruined  brick 
structure  that  was  once  a  nail  mill;  and  this  mill  gives  its 
name  to  the  section. 

Across  the  tracks,  there  are  half  a  dozen  streets,  lined  for 
the  most  part  with  well-kept  little  cottages  of  workingmen. 
But  in  one  street  there  is  a  larger  structure  that  was  once  a 
hotel. 


72  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

This  hotel  is  called  the  Weaver  House.  It  fronts  on  the 
street,  is  flanked  on  one  side  by  a  railway  track,  and  is  backed 
by  the  creek  whose  muddy  waters  lap  its  sills  at  flood  time. 
This  was,  in  its  days  of  glory,  a  railroad  hotel,  catering  to  the 
train  crews  in  the  days  before  the  roads  frowned  on  drink 
among  the  men.  When  the  road  threatened  to  discharge  any 
man  seen  in  the  place,  its  business  languished.  But  prohibition 
brought  the  Weaver  House  a  measure  of  prosperity.  There 
was  strategic  merit  in  its  situation.  A  rear  room  overhung 
the  creek;  and  a  section  of  the  floor  of  this  room  was  so 
arranged  that  when  a  bolt  was  pulled  the  floor  would  swing 
downward  and  drop  whatever  it  bore  into  the  concealing  waters. 

This  was  a  simple  and  effective  way  of  destroying  evidence; 
and  the  owner  of  the  place  made  good  use  of  it. 

The  office  of  this  hostelry  was  a  square  room  at  one  corner 
in  front.  At  eleven  o'clock  on  the  night  of  election  day, 
there  were  five  creatures  in  this  room. 

Four  were  human ;  one  was  a  dog. 

The  office  was  lighted  by  a  single  oil  lamp.  The  chimney  of 
this  lamp  had  once  been  badly  smoked,  and  subsequently 
cleaned  by  a  masculine  hand.  It  was,  to  put  it  gently,  dingy. 
Also,  its  wick  needed  trimming.  As  a  result  of  these  defects, 
the  light  it  gave  was  not  blinding. 

This  lamp  stood  on  a  square  table  in  one  corner  of  the 
room.  A  wall  bench  ran  along  two  sides  of  the  table.  At 
the  corner,  a  checkerboard  was  set  on  the  table,  and  over  this 
board  two  old  men  leaned.  They  were  engrossed  in  their 
game.  Both  were  gray,  both  were  unclean,  both  were  ragged. 
Both  were  bearded,  and  the  beards  of  both  were  stained,  below 
the  mouth,  with  tobacco.  Nevertheless,  they  played  keenly, 
and  at  the  conclusion  of  each  game  broke  into  bitter,  cackling 
arguments.  These  arguments  lasted  only  so  long  as  it  took 
them  to  rearrange  the  men,  when  the  one  whose  turn  it  was 
made  the  first  move,  and  silence  instantly  descended  on  them 
again. 

These  gusts  of  debate  which  broke  from  the  old  men  now  and 
then  were  the  only  sounds  in  the  room. 

Beside  one  of  the  men,  and  leaning  forward  over  the  table 


THE  NOTIFICATION  73 

in  a  strained  and  awkward  position,  was  the  boy.  He  may 
have  been  fourteen  years  old.  But  it  was  strange  and  pitiful 
to  see  in  his  face,  in  his  eyes,  an  air  of  age  and  grim  experience 
almost  equaling  that  of  his  two  old  companions.  This  boy 
was  dressed  in  clothes  too  small  for  him,  so  that  his  wrists 
stuck  out  from  his  sleeves,  his  neck  reared  itself  bare  and 
gaunt  above  his  coat  collar,  and  his  pale  ankles  and  shins  were 
exposed  above  the  shoes  he  wore. 

This  boy  was  reading.  He  was  reading  a  copy  of  the  bulletin 
of  the  Ohio  Brewers'  Association.  He  was  spelling  it  out 
word  by  word,  with  the  closest  attention.  When  the  old  men 
burst  into  argument,  the  boy  shook  his  head  a  little  as  though 
annoyed  by  their  outcries.  But  for  the  rest,  he  read  steadily, 
passing  his  fingers  along  the  lines  as  he  read. 

The  dog  slept  on  the  floor  at  his  feet.  The  dog  was  just 
a  dog. 

The  other  person  in  the  room  was  the  manager  of  the  Weaver 
House.  The  manager  was  a  woman.  The  manager  was  also 
the  owner.  She  sat  in  a  chair  beside  what  had  been  the  bar, 
at  one  side  of  the  room.  Her  hands  were  folded  in  her  lap, 
her  head  lolled  on  one  shoulder,  her  mouth  was  open,  and  she 
was  asleep. 

This  woman  was  a  virago.  In  the  old  days,  she  once  hit 
a  brakeman  with  a  rubber  bung  starter,  and  he  died.  She 
was  acquitted  because  the  brakeman  was  drunk  and  she  pleaded 
self-defense.  She  was  feared  and  respected  by  the  men  among 
whom  she  lived.  In  Paris,  in  '93,  she  would  have  been  a 
commanding  figure.  In  the  Nail  Mill  Addition  of  Hardiston 
she  was  a  plague.  But  as  she  sat  here  now,  asleep,  her  old 
hands  folded  in  her  lap,  she  invited  not  fear  nor  disgust  but 
just  compassion. 

She  was  merely  a  tired  old  woman,  asleep. 

She  was  still  asleep  when  the  street  door  opened  and  four 
men  came  in. 

The  floor  of  the  office  was  a  foot  below  the  level  of  the 
street.  The  first  of  the  four  men  tripped  and  stumbled  over 
this  descent;  and  this  slight  sound  woke  the  woman.  She  got 
to  her  feet  with  scrambling  quickness,  and  from  behind  the 


74  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

breastwork  of  the  dusty  bar,  surveyed  her  visitors.  Her  eyes 
were  failing,  and  she  thrust  her  head  forward  and  twisted  it 
on  one  side  that  she  might  see  the  better. 

When  she  saw  who  the  leader  of  the  four  men  was,  she  straight 
ened  up  with  relief  and  said,  her  voice  openly  contemptuous: 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  Kite?  " 

It  was.  V.  R.  Kite,  Jack  Routt,  and  two  of  Kite's  satellites. 
Kite  glanced  at  the  men  over  the  checkerboard,  and  at  the 
boy.  The  old  men,  at  their  entrance,  had  looked  up  in  fretful 
hostility,  surrendered  to  the  inevitable,  and  returned  to  their 
game.  The  boy  continued  to  read. 

"  Hello,  Mrs.  Moody !  "  said  Kite  to  the  woman ;  and  he 
stepped  toward  her  and  lowered  his  voice.  "  Is  there  a  man 
—  Wint  Chase  —  staying  here?  " 

Mrs.  Moody  grinned.  The  grin  revealed  a  startlingly  perfect 
set  of  false  teeth,  as  beautiful  as  those  of  a  girl  of  twenty.  Their 
very  beauty  made  them  hideous  in  Mrs.  Moody's  mouth.  She 
nodded. 

"  I  want  to  see  him." 

"He's  upstairs.     I'll  show  you." 

She  turned  around  and  took  a  lamp  from  a  shelf  behind  her 
and  lighted  it.  Then,  with  this  in  her  right  hand,  and  her 
petticoats  gathered  up  in  her  left,  she  emerged  from  behind 
the  bar  and  led  the  way  to  the  stairs. 

The  four  men  followed  in  silence.  Kite  led,  and  Routt  was 
on  his  heels. 

The  stairs  were  uncertain;  but  they  made  the  ascent  without 
disaster.  Mrs.  Moody  led  the  way  along  a  narrow  hall  to 
an  open  door,  and  stood  aside  here  so  that  the  others  might 
enter.  She  was  enjoying  herself. 

The  four  men  went  into  the  dark  room,  and  the  woman 
followed  and  set  the  lamp  on  the  mantel.  This  lamp  illumined 
the  place. 

The  room  contained  a  bed,  a  chair,  and  a  wardrobe.  On  the 
chair  were  set  two  shoes.  On  the  floor  lay  a  hat  and  a  coat 
and  one  sock.  In  the  bed,  sprawling  on  his  back  upon  the 
dirty  coverlet,  was  Wint. 


THE  NOTIFICATION  75 

The  woman  crossed  and  shook  him  by  the  shoulder.  She 
screamed  at  him: 

"  Wake  up,  deary !     Here's  gentlemen  to  see  you !  " 

Routt  crossed  quickly  to  her  side,  his  face  working.  "  Here. 
Let  me!  " 

She  pushed  him  scornfully.  "  And  don't  I  know  the  ways 
of  a  drunk,  at  my  age?  Get  back  with  you.  It's  me  that  has 
a  right  to  bring  him  out  of  it." 

She  shook  Wint  again;  and  this  time  he  came  slowly  back 
to  consciousness.  He  gasped,  flung  out  his  arms,  stirred.  His 
mouth  twisted  as  though  at  a  bad  taste  on  his  tongue.  They 
waited  for  his  eyes  to  open,  but  after  a  moment  he  settled  back 
into  sleep  again. 

The  woman  looked  up  over  her  shoulder.  "  He's  had  a 
full  dose.  Since  noon  he's  been  so."  She  shook  Wint  again, 
yelled  into  his  ear,  cuffed  him. 

Thus  presently  he  woke. 

His  eyes  opened,  though  he  still  lay  on  his  back.  His  eyes 
opened,  and  they  wandered  idly  about  the  room,  fixing  a  dull 
gaze  now  on  this  face  and  now  on  that.  Wint  was  usually 
amiable  when  he  was  drunk,  and  so  when  he  discovered  Routt, 
he  grinned  and  tried  to  sit  up. 

"Good  oF  Jack,"  he  said  thickly.  "Tried  be  a  guardian 
t'  me.  I  fooled  'm.  No  hard  feelin's,  Jack.  Shake,  oF  man." 

He  leaned  on  one  elbow  and  thrust  out  an  unsteady  hand. 
V.  R.  Kite  grinned  wickedly,  and  Routt  stepped  forward  and 
sat  down  on  the  bed  and  put  his  arms  about  Wint's  shoulders. 

"  Wint,"  he  begged.  "  Stiffen  up !  We've  got  to  get  you  out 
of  here." 

Wint  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  comf'ble  here.  My  hostess  — " 
He  waved  a  hand  toward  Mrs.  Moody.  "  She's  a  lady.  I'll 
stay  right  here.  I'm  always  go'n'  stay  here,  Jack." 

Routt  shook  him  gently,  cuffed  his  cheeks  smartly.  "Wint! 
Wint!  Come  out  of  it!  Come  on.  Let's  go  to  my  house. 
Let's  go  home." 

Wint  recognized  the  others.  "  H'lo,  V.  R.,"  he  said  amiably. 
"  V.  R.,  why  this  sudd'n  s'lic'tude?  " 


76  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

V.  R.  Kite  was  not  a  bashful  man.  He  was  enjoying  himself. 
"  I  came  to  take  you  home  —  take  you  to  some  respectable 
house,"  he  declared.  "  This  is  no  place  for  you." 

Mrs.  Moody  broke  into  objurgations.  But  one  of  Kite's 
companions  deftly  hustled  her  into  the  hall,  and  silenced  her 
there.  Wint  persisted: 

"  Why  don'  this  place  suit  me  all  right?  I  wanna  know, 
V.  R." 

Routt  looked  at  Kite,  and  Kite  said  oracularly:  "Because, 
my  friend,  the  voters  of  Hardiston  have  elected  you  their  next 
Mayor." 

Wint  was  swaying  a  little  in  Routt's  arms;  and  for  a  time 
his  face  remained  blank.  Then  it  assumed  a  puzzled  look.  In 
the  end  he  asked,  his  voice  less  unsteady:  "  What's  —  that?  " 

"  You're  elected  Mayor,  Wint,"  Routt  told  him.     "  Brace  up." 

Wint  sat  up  slowly,  pushing  Routt's  arms  aside.  "  You 
mean  —  my  father,  don't  you?  " 

Routt  shook  his  head ;  and  Kite  said  pompously :  "  No,  not 
your  father.  Yourself.  The  voters  wrote  in  your  name  on 
the  ballots  .  .  ." 

They  saw  a  slow  sweep  of  red  flood  Wint's  face;  and  for  an 
instant  his  eyes  closed  as  though  he  were  fainting.  The  flush 
passed  and  left  him  pale.  He  got  up,  stood  erect,  unsteady, 
then  firm.  He  shed  drunkenness  as  though  it  were  a  cloak, 
throwing  it  off  with  a  backward  movement  of  his  shoulders. 

They  watched  him,  waiting;  and  V.  R.  Kite  suddenly  moved 
a  little  toward  the  door,  half  afraid. 

Then  Wint  burst  out  on  them.  He  waved  his  hands  furiously. 
"Routt!"  he  shouted.  "This  is  a  poor  joke.  It's  a  damn 
poor  joke.  You  Kite,  you  old  whited  sepulchre.  You  pan- 
derer,  you  worse  than  a  prostitute  —  get  out  of  here !  Jack  — 
I  counted  you  my  friend.  You're  all  dogs,  cowards,  rascals! 
Get  out!  If  I  choose  to  lie  drunk  in  this  shack  —  I'll  lie  here. 
None  of  you  shall  stop  me.  It's  not  your  affair.  It's  mine. 
Mine!  Get  out!  The  last  one  of  you!  Get  out!  " 

He  was  so  furious  that  they  obeyed  him.  Routt  tried  to 
protest,  but  Wint  gripped  him  by  the  shoulders  and  whirled 
him  and  thrust  him  toward  the  door. 


THE  NOTIFICATION  77 

They  tumbled  over  each  other  into  the  hall.  Even  V.  R. 
Kite  lost  his  dignity.  Wint  pursued  them,  cursing  them.  He 
drove  them  to  the  stairs,  down,  stood  above  them  with 
brandished  fists.  And  when  they  had  gone  he  still  stood  there 
for  a  space,  trembling  and  alone. 

Then  he  turned  and  went  haltingly  back  into  the  room.  He 
was  no  longer  drunk.  He  was  as  sober  as  hell.  He  went  into 
the  room,  stood  at  the  door,  frozen,  ghastly  white. 

The  lamp  still  stood  on  the  mantel,  and  he  crossed  to  it 
without  knowing  what  he  did.  He  stood  before  it. 

There  was  a  cracked  mirror  behind  the  lamp,  above  the 
mantel.  Wint  saw  himself  in  it. 

He  looked  into  his  own  eyes  for  a  long  instant;  and  then 
his  face  twitched  into  a  terrible,  shamed,  disgusted  grimace. 
He  lifted  the  lamp  in  both  hands  and  sent  it  crashing  into  the 
grate  in  the  fireplace.  It  splintered  and  shivered  into  frag 
ments.  The  flame  of  the  wick  still  burned,  however,  and  the 
oil  that  had  spilled  caught  fire,  so  that  for  a  time  the  hearth 
and  the  grate  were  wreathed  in  blue  flame. 

Then  the  oil  burned  itself  out.  The  room  was  left  in  dark 
ness. 

Wint  went  slowly  across  to  the  miserable  bed  and  sat  down 
on  it.  He  gripped  his  head  in  his  hands.  After  a  little  he 
lay  down  on  his  back  on  the  bed. 

Presently  his  misery  and  shame  became  so  poignant  that  tears 
filled  his  eyes  and  welled  over  and  flowed  down  his  cheeks  to 
the  pillow.  He  ignored  them. 

Eventually,  the  silence  in  the  room  was  torn  by  a  single, 
racking  sob. 

END   OF  BOOK   ONE 


BOOK  II 


CHAPTER  I 

MULDOON 

THE  sun  woke  Wint  in  the  morning;  and  the  awakening 
was  cruel.  Level,  white-hot  rays  burned  through  his 
eyelids  as  though  they  would  char  to  cinders  his  aching 
eyes.  He  threw  his  arm  fretfully  across  his  face  to  keep  off 
the  glare  and  lay  quietly  on  the  shabby  bed,  groping  back  into 
the  night  and  into  the  hours  of  the  preceding  day  in  a  terrible 
effort  to  remember. 

There  was  no  more  drunkenness  in  him.  The  shock  of 
what  they  had  told  him  had  banished  that.  He  was  sober. 
Too  sober,  in  all  conscience,  for  any  peace  of  mind.  It  was 
his  loneliness  that  was  most  torturing.  If  there  had  been 
some  one  near,  some  one  else  in  the  room,  for  whose  benefit 
it  was  necessary  to  play  a  part,  Wint  would  have  stiffened  his 
resolution  and  laughed  at  the  situation.  But  he  could  not 
play  a  part  that  would  deceive  himself.  Alone  in  the  dingy  bed 
room  in  that  disreputable  place,  he  burned  with  shame  and 
tortured  pride. 

He  began  to  fit  together  the  pieces  of  the  puzzle.  He  never 
doubted  that  it  was  true  the  voters  had  elected  him.  There 
had  been  truth  in  Jack  Routt's  eyes  the  night  before,  truth 
and  a  sort  of  triumph.  Routt  was  a  good  fellow  and  a  true 
friend;  and  he  rejoiced,  no  doubt,  that  Wint  had  been  so 
honored.  Wint,  thinking  this,  grimaced.  He  knew,  without 
explanations,  that  his  election  was  a  joke;  a  colossal  joke 
in  the  first  place  upon  his  father,  and  a  grim  jest  at  his  own 
expense.  He  could  imagine  the  cackling  mirth  of  those  who 
had  engineered  the  thing;  and  this  laughter  that  he  seemed  to 
hear  lashed  his  ears. 

He  flung  himself  over  on  his  face  and  buried  his  head  in 
his  arms  and  tried  to  think.  He  was  full  of  rebellion.  He 
would  go  away,  leave  this  place,  never  return  .  .  . 

After  a  time,  he  lifted  his  head  and  moved  his  body  and 

81 


82  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

sat  up  on  the  bed,  his  feet  on  the  floor.     He  sat  up  and  looked 
about  him  and  shuddered  in  a  sick  way. 

The  light  of  day  made  this  room  more  hideous  than  it  had 
been  by  lamplight.  The  shattered  lamp  lay  in  the  grate,  and 
there  was  a  charred  place  on  the  floor  near  the  hearth,  where 
the  oil  had  burned  itself  out,  when  Wint  threw  down  the  lamp 
the  night  before.  Above  the  mantel  hung  the  cracked  mirror. 
In  it  from  where  he  sat  Wint  could  see  a  distorted  reflection  of 
the  ceiling  of  the  room,  and  an  angle  of  the  wall.  There  had 
once  been  paper  on  this  wall,  and  it  had  been  cracked  by 
the  shrinking  of  the  plaster,  and  picked  away  by  casual  fingers, 
and  here  and  there  it  hung  in  short,  ragged  strips.  The  bare 
floor  was  unclean;  the  chair  near  the  bed  where  Wint's  two 
shoes  now  reposed  was  decrepit  and  lacked  paint.  One  door 
of  the  big  wardrobe  hung  awkwardly  from  weakened  hinges. 
It  was  a  little  ajar,  and  Wint  could  see  a  disorder  of  rubbish 
inside.  On  the  floor  near  the  chair  lay  his  hat  and  coat  and 
one  sock,  where  he  had  dropped  them  when  he  had  come  here 
and  stumbled  drunkenly  to  bed. 

He  held  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  his  fingers  clenched  in 
his  crisp  hair. 

For  some  time,  his  senses  had  been  catching  hints  of  life 
in  the  building  below  him.  The  smell  of  burning  grease  had 
come  up  the  stairs  from  the  kitchen;  and  the  grumble  of  voices 
now  and  then  upraised  in  protest  or  abuse  had  reached  his 
ears.  Once  he  heard,  from  a  distance  and  muffled  by  inter 
vening  doors  and  walls,  the  clamor  of  quarreling  dogs.  But 
these  things  did  not  penetrate  his  consciousness  until  a  new 
and  louder  disturbance  broke  out  somewhere  below. 

A  dog  barked,  snarling  and  angry;  another  yelped.  The 
two  joined  their  voices  in  an  angry  tumult  of  sound.  Then  a 
woman's  voice,  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Moody,  shouted  abuse,  and 
a  door  opened  and  cries  and  barks  and  snarls  redoubled. 

Wint  lifted  his  head,  in  sudden  recognition.  He  heard  the 
thud  of  some  missile  that  had  missed  its  mark  and  clattered 
against  the  floor;  and  then  he  heard  the  scramble  of  hard-toed 
feet  racing  up  the  stairs,  and  the  snuffing  of  eager  nostrils. 
His  eyes  lighted  softly;  and  he  called:  "  Muldoon!  " 


MULDOON  83 

There  was  a  yelp  of  delight  and  a  new  scuffle  of  feet,  and 
Muldoon  plunged  in  through  the  open  door  and  was  all  over 
Wint  in  a  delirious  joy  at  this  reunion.  The  dog  leaped 
up  on  Wint's  knees;  it  tried  to  climb  on  his  shoulders;  its 
tongue  sought  to  caress  his  cheeks;  it  nipped  his  hands  lovingly; 
and  all  the  time  it  whined  a  low  whine  of  happiness.  Wint, 
cuffing  the  hard  and  eager  head,  smiled  in  spite  of  himself 
at  the  dog's  caresses;  he  smiled,  and  caught  Muldoon  by  the 
ears  and  held  him  away  and  shook  him  affectionately. 

"You,  dog!  "  he  scolded.  "How  did  you  come  here?  Eh, 
you?  " 

Muldoon  wriggled  in  a  desperate  effort  to  explain;  and  then 
he  stiffened  in  Wint's  arms,  and  turned  toward  the  door  with 
hackles  rising.  Wint  looked  that  way  and  saw  Mrs.  Moody, 
panting  with  the  zeal  of  her  pursuit.  The  virago  came  in; 
she  bore  a  stick  of  firewood  in  one  harsh  hand;  she  made  for 
Muldoon,  and  her  old  lips  dripped  blistering  abuse. 

Wint  drew  Muldoon  close  in  his  arms  and  held  up  a  pro 
testing  hand.  "  Wait  a  minute,  wait  a  minute !  "  he  warned 
her.  "What's  the  matter?  " 

She  smiled  mirthlessly,  brandishing  her  billet  and  reach 
ing  for  Muldoon's  scruff.  "  I'm  a-goin'  to  whale  that  pup, 
deary,"  she  told  Wint.  "He's  been  around  here  all  morn 
ing." 

Wint  hugged  Muldoon  closer.  "  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  he 
knew  I  was  here." 

She  looked  puzzled.     "  He  ain't  your'n,  is  he?  " 

"  Sure,"  Wint  told  her.     "  He's  some  dog,  too." 

The  woman's  anger  vanished.  "Well,  say  now,  if  I'd  a 
knowed  that  .  .  ."  She  laughed,  her  desolately  beautiful  false 
teeth  glistening  between  her  wrinkled  lips.  "He's  drove  my 
dog  crazy.  He  come  around  here  before  day,  and  Jim  heard 
him  and  tried  to  get  out.  Woke  me  up.  I  drove  this  one 
away;  but  he  came  back.  Jim  got  out  once,  and  they  had  it 
till  I  broke  'em  up.  And  then  a  minute  ago,  Jim  got  out 
again,  and  when  I  went  after  'em  with  this  stove  wood,  that'n 
of  your'n  slipped  by  me  and  in  and  up  th'  stairs." 

Wint    rubbed    Muldoon's    head    proudly.     "  He   must   have 


84  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

tracked  me,  found  me  out  somehow,5'  he  explained.  "  I  left 
him  locked  up.  Hope  he  didn't  hurt  your  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  Jim  c'n  take  care  of  hisself .  If  he  can't,  he'll  have 
t'  look  out."  She  looked  around  the  room  curiously.  "  You 
had  callers  last  night.  D'ye  remember?  " 

Wint  nodded,  bending  over  the  dog.     "  Yes  —  I  remember." 

The  woman  studied  him.  "  Thought  mebbe  you  was  too 
far  gone  to  know  anythin'  .  .  ."  She  waited  for  Wint  to  speak; 
but  Wint  volunteered  nothing,  so  she  remarked :  "  I  see  th' 
lamp  got  broke." 

"  I'll  pay  for  it,"  Wint  told  her.     She  nodded. 

"  That's  all  right.  All  in  the  bill.  You  must've  been  tickled 
to  hear  about  bein'  elected." 

Wint  said  nothing.  The  woman  laughed  harshly.  "  Never 
had  a  Mayor  of  Hardiston  in  my  hotel  before.  Had  some 
sheriffs,  and  a  marshal  now  'nd  then.  But  no  Mayor!  "  She 
shook  with  mirth  at  the  thought.  "  I  d'clare,  I'll  have  t'  raise 
my  rates." 

Wint  looked  at  her  steadily,  with  expressionless  eyes.  He 
was  fighting  to  hide  the  humiliation  which  was  stinging  him; 
and  he  succeeded.  His  silence  at  last  frightened  the  worrfan; 
she  backed  toward  the  door,  babbling  broken  sentences.  Only 
when  she  was  in  the  hall,  with  an  avenue  of  flight  open  to 
her,  did  she  recover  herself.  "  But  I  s'pose  you'll  f orgit  old 
friends,  now  that  you're  Mayor,  deary,"  she  told  him. 

Wint  smiled  bleakly.     "  Don't  count  on  it,"  he  said. 

She  seemed  uncertain  whether  to  take  this  as  a  threat  or  re 
assurance.  "  I  was  always  a  good  friend  to  you,"  she  reminded 
him. 

He  nodded.     "  Yes  —  you've  been  consistent,  at  least." 

She  wagged  her  old  head,  comforted  and  grinning.  "  I 
guess  you  won't  f  orgit,"  she  told  herself.  And  after  a  moment: 
"Will  you  be  wanting  some  breakfast?  " 

Wint  stroked  the  ears  of  Muldoon.  "  No,"  he  said.  "  No." 
And  he  added  thoughtfully :  "  Thank  you  very  much." 

"  That's  all  right,  deary,"  she  assured  him,  and  so  turned 
at  last  and  went  haltingly  down  the  stairs. 


MULDOON  85 

When  the  woman  was  gone,  Wint  sat  very  still  for  a  space, 
staring  at  the  empty  doorway,  thinking.  Muldoon  was  on 
his  lap,  and  Wint  forgot  the  dog,  although  his  hand  still 
played  automatically  with  Muldoon's  ears.  The  dog  was  for 
a  time  content  with  this,  moving  its  head  now  and  then  under 
Wint's  hand  to  get  full  value  from  his  caresses;  but  by  and 
by  it  became  conscious  of  his  abstraction,  and  looked  up  into 
his  face,  and  wriggled,  and  at  last  muzzled  a  cold  nose  under 
his  chin  and  nudged  upward  against  Wint's  jaw  until  Wint 
emerged  from  his  absorption  and  laughed  and  caught  Muldoon's 
head  in  his  hands  and  shook  it.  "  There,  boy,"  he  whispered. 
"  D'you  think  I'd  forgotten  you?  No  fear,  Muldoon." 

Having  aroused  his  master,  Muldoon  in  his  turn  decided 
to  feign  abstraction.  He  lay  down,  ostentatiously,  across  Wint's 
knees,  and  he  pillowed  his  muzzle  on  his  forepaws  and  lay 
there  with  eyes  rolling  up  in  spite  of  himself  to  watch  Wint's 
face.  Wint  cupped  the  dog's  lower  jaw  in  his  right  hand  and 
shook  it  gently.  "  What  are  they  saying  about  me  uptown, 
Muldoon?  "  he  asked. 

The  dog  moved  its  head,  then  fell  intd  a  motionless  pose 
again.  Wint  bent  over  it,  whispering,  half  to  Muldoon  and 
half  to  himself.  "  Laughing,  of  course,"  he  said  softly. 
"Laughing!  The  joke  of  years!"  He  smiled  grimly. 
"  Tough  on  dad.  He'd  set  his  heart  on  this  Mayor  busi 
ness." 

He  looked  across  to  the  window,  and  his  eyes  hardened. 
"They  meant  it  as  much  as  a  joke  on  me  as  on  father,"  he 
reminded  himself,  and  his  eyes  burned.  He  wondered  how  the 
plan  had  been  carried  through.  Caretall  and  Gergue  must 
have  had  their  hand  in  it;  they  had  probably  united  with  V.  R. 
Kite.  It  would  be  reasonably  easy,  he  knew.  His  father  had 
had  no  real  popularity.  Winthrop  Chase,  Senior,  was  not  a 
likable  man.  He  was  not  a  vote  getter.  There  was  a  self- 
conscious  condescension  about  his  good-fellowship. 

Wint  had  never  paid  any  great  attention  to  local  politics. 
He  wondered  idly  what  a  Mayor  had  to  do.  He  tried  to  re 
member  some  of  the  things  Mayors  had  done  in  the  past;  and 


86  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

he  found  his  only  knowledge  of  the  subject  concerned  with  a 
Hallowe'en  prank  as  a  result  of  which  he  and  two  others  had 
been  haled  before  the  Mayor's  court  and  badly  frightened. 

"  He  must  do  something  besides  that,"  he  assured  himself. 
"  But  Lord  —  I  couldn't  even  do  that." 

What  was  he  to  do?  That  was  the  thing  he  had  to  decide, 
and  he  must  decide  at  once.  What  could  he  do?  Was  there 
any  way  by  which  he  could  nullify  the  election;  resign;  abdi 
cate;  get  himself  impeached?  He  thought  of  these  projects 
wistfully.  They  took  no  concrete  form  in  his  mind.  He  knew 
nothing  of  the  machinery  of  local  government,  knew  nothing  of 
the  avenues  of  escape  which  might  be  open  to  him. 

He  only  knew  that  he  would  not  be  made  thus  the  butt  of 
the  town's  mirth.  His  face  flushed  at  the  thought;  and  he 
got  up  abruptly  and  walked  to  the  window,  Muldoon  pacing 
at  his  side  and  looking  up  wistfully  at  his  master.  He  would 
not  do  it.  They  should  have  their  trouble  for  their  pains. 
They  were  fools.  Impudent  fools  .  .  . 

One  thing  he  could  do;  one  thing  at  least.  He  could  go 
away.  Hide.  If  he  were  not  here,  they  could  not  force  him 
to  serve.  So  much  was  sure.  He  would  go  away  .  .  . 

This  decision,  Wint  told  himself,  had  cleared  the  air.  He 
tried  to  believe  that  it  solved  all  his  perplexities;  and  he  bent 
over  Muldoon  and  cuffed  the  dog  and  romped  with  it  across 
the  room,  to  Muldoon's  delirious  delight.  Then  he  began  to 
whistle  to  himself,  and  so  looked  about  and  sat  down  on  the 
bed,  and  drew  on  the  sock  which  still  lay  on  the  floor.  He  had 
difficulty  in  fastening  the  sock  supporter  about  his  leg.  The 
leg  of  the  trousers  obstructed  him.  He  fussed  over  the  thing 
until  he  was  fuming  again,  and  his  face  flushed  with  stooping. 
But  at  last  the  trick  was  done,  and  he  took  his  shoes  from  the 
chair  and  put  them  on.  He  found  that  one  of  the  laces  was 
broken,  no  doubt  by  his  drunken  fingers  when  he  had  unlaced 
the  shoes  before  removing  them.  This  discovery  whetted  his 
resentment  and  disgust.  He  knotted  the  lace  and  hid  the  knot 
under  an  eyelet  of  the  shoe,  where  it  pressed  on  his  instep 
and  irked  him.  He  kicked  the  shoe  on  the  floor  until  it  gave 
him  some  measure  of  comfort. 


MULDOON  87 

His  hat  and  coat  were  on  the  floor.  He  put  them  on, 
brushing  the  dust  from  the  coat  with  his  hands,  and  afterwards 
with  a  flicker  of  his  handkerchief.  Then  he  crossed  reluctantly 
to  the  speckled  mirror  and  looked  into  it. 

He  saw  that  his  face  was  dirty,  and  his  collar  soiled  and 
crushed.  He  took  the  collar  off  and  turned  it  inside  out  and 
replaced  it,  and  it  gave  him  some  faint  satisfaction  to  see  the 
improvement  thus  effected  in  his  appearance.  But  he  was  still 
ghastly.  There  was  no  water  in  the  room ;  and  he  knew  that  the 
bathroom  at  the  end  of  this  upper  hall  was  not  made  for  clean 
liness,  so  he  wet  his  handkerchief  with  his  tongue  and  scrubbed 
his  face  clean  with  that.  The  result  had  a  forced  and  unnatural 
look,  but  he  was  constrained  to  be  content. 

He  started  slowly  for  the  door,  but  his  feet  lagged.  It  was 
hard  for  him  to  make  up  his  mind  to  face  the  world  again.  He 
thought,  uneasily,  of  remaining  here  through  the  day  and 
catching  a  night  freight  out  of  town;  and  he  turned  irresolutely 
back  toward  the  bed,  but  Muldoon,  at  his  knee,  barked  softly 
in  remonstrance,  and  Wint  bent  and  patted  the  dog's  head  and 
said  softly:  "Right  you  are,  pup.  We're  not  afraid  of  them. 
But  Heaven  help  the  man  that  laughs,  Muldoon!  " 

The  dog  wagged  its  whole  body,  and  barked  again,  as  though 
in  approval;  and  Wint  smiled  faintly  and  went  again  toward 
the  door.  He  looked  down  and  saw  that  his  trousers  were 
wrinkled,  and  he  smoothed  and  tugged  at  them  in  an  effort  to 
give  them  some  appearance  of  respectability.  When  he  had 
done  his  best  for  them,  he  went  toward  the  door  again,  and 
this  time  he  did  not  stop.  He  went  out  into  the  hall,  and 
to  the  stair  head,  and  so  down  into  the  office  of  the  hotel. 

Like  the  bedroom,  the  office  of  the  Weaver  House  suffered 
by  daylight.  Even  the 'dingy  and  unwashed  window  panes 
could  not  keep  out  the  pitiless  sun;  and  the  room's  ugliness  was 
exposed  in  hideous  nakedness. 

The  room,  save  for  the  fact  that  the  sun  instead  of  a  lamp 
lighted  it,  was  as  it  had  been  the  night  before.  The  smoky 
lamp,  still  standing  on  the  table,  gave  forth  a  smell  of  dirty 
oil  which  filled  the  place  and  fought  with  the  reek  of  bad 
tobacco  and  the  pungent  smell  of  alcohol.  Doors  and  windows 


88  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

were  tight  shut.  At  their  corner  of  the  table,  above  their 
checkerboard,  still  leaned  the  two  old  men.  It  was  as  though 
they  had  not  stirred,  the  long  night  through.  As  Wint  came 
down  the  stairs,  a  game  ended,  and  their  cackling  voices  broke 
into  the  familiar  argument,  while  their  stained  old  fingers 
swiftly  rearranged  the  pieces  for  a  new  beginning.  Then 
one  moved  a  piece,  and  both  fell  silent,  and  the  new  game 
began. 

Mrs.  Moody  sat  at  her  place  behind  what  had  been  the  bar. 
The  only  change  in  the  room  since  the  night  before  was  that 
instead  of  the  reading  boy,  a  man  sat  by  the  table.  This  man 
was  unshaven,  trembling,  shrunken  within  his  rumpled  and 
baggy  garments.  His  eyes  were  open,  and  his  head  wagged 
from  side  to  side  as  he  sat,  and  his  lips  moved  in  an  inter 
minable,  mumbling  argument  with  some  one  invisible. 

Jim,  the  dog  that  was  just  a  dog,  was  not  to  be  seen. 

Wint,  with  Muldoon  at  his  heels,  came  down  the  stairs  and 
stopped  in  front  of  the  bar  and  nodded  to  Mrs.  Moody.  He 
reached  into  his  pocket,  and  the  old  woman  got  up  briskly 
and  grinned  at  him,  the  enamel  of  her  teeth  a  blinding  white 
flash  in  her  wrinkled  old  face.  Her  eyes  puckered  when  she 
grinned;  and  she  laid  her  hands,  palms  down,  upon  the  bar. 

"  Going  away,  deary?  "  she  asked. 

Wint  nodded.     "What  do  I  owe  you?  " 

"  Sorry  I  ain't  got  a  bite  to  offer  ye,"  she  apologized.  Then, 
with  a  sly  glance  at  the  men  across  the  room,  "  Less'n  you 
wanted  to  come  out  by  the  kitchen  in  back.  A  little  drop  .  .  ." 

Wint  shook  his  head.     "Not  to-day.     How  much?" 

She  told  him  and  he  selected  a  bill  and  gave  it  to  her. 
She  took  it,  and  tucked  up  her  apron  and  delved  into  the  pocket 
of  her  loose  skirt  and  produced  a  dirty,  cloth  bag.  This  bag 
was  tied  with  a  string  at  the  top ;  and  she  untied  the  string,  and 
rummaged  inside,  and  found  his  change,  and  gave  it  to  him. 
He  took  it  from  her;  and  as  he  did  so,  he  turned  at  a  shuffling 
step  and  saw  the  drunken  man  at  his  elbow. 

This  man  peered  at  him;  and  Wint  moved  a  little  away 
from  him.  The  man  followed  a  lurching  step,  and  grinned 
placatingly,  and  mumbled:  "Wint  Chase,  ain't  it?  " 


MULDOON  89 

Wint  nodded.  "Yes."  He  tried  to  pass  the  man  and  get 
to  the  door;  but  the  man  thrust  out  a  shaking  hand. 

"Shake!"  he  invited  thickly.  "Wanna  shake  hands  with 
new  Mayor.  Voted  f'r  you,  voted  f'r  you  three  times." 

Mrs.  Moody  was  leaning  across  the  bar  and  watching  and 
grinning.  Wint  hesitated,  and  then  he  took  the  man's  hand 
and  shook  it,  and  tried  to  release  it;  but  the  man  clung  to 
it,  and  lunged  closer,  and  put  his  other  hand  on  Wint's  shoulder. 
His  weight  fell  against  Wint's  chest. 

"  New  Mayor,"  he  repeated  uncertainly.  "  Good,  nice  new 
Mayor."  He  chuckled  loosely  and  wiped  his  wet  mouth  with 
the  back  of  his  hand  and  gripped  Wint's  shoulder  again,  and 
regarded  Wint  seriously,  studying  him.  "  Good  little  man," 
he  applauded.  "  Make  dam'  good  Mayor  f'r  this  little  town." 

He  rocked  on  his  feet,  and  Wint  tried  to  put  the  man  away 
without  offending  him,  but  the  man  staggered  and  clasped  his 
arms  around  Wint's  neck  and  giggled  weakly  on  Wint's  breast. 
"  This'll  be  a  nice,  wet  li'l  town  now,  eh,  boy !  "  he  exulted. 
"Eh,  boy?  Nice,  wet  li'l  town  .  .  ." 

Wint,  with  a  sudden  revulsion  that  sickened  him  and  stiffened 
his  angry  pride,  thrust  the  man  away  and  stepped  quickly 
out  into  the  street.  He  felt  Muldoon  brush  against  his  legs, 
and  he  looked  down  at  the  dog  and  set  his  jaw. 

"You,  dog,"  he  whispered.  "They've  tried  one  joke  too 
many.  Eh,  pup?  We'll  stay  and  turn  the  joke  on  them, 
Muldoon.  What  say?  " 

Muldoon  whined  approvingly,  fidgeting  on  eager  feet;  and 
Wint  bent  and  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  Come  on, 
you,"  he  said  softly.  "  Come  on.  Let's  go  home." 


CHAPTER  II 

JOAN 

WINT  left  the  Weaver  House  at  a  little  before  noon, 
Muldoon  trotting  sedately  at  his  heels.     The  street 
outside  the  hotel  was  empty;  and  Wint  was  glad  of 
this.     He  followed  it  to  the  railroad  tracks,  intending  to  cross 
the  yards  and  take  a  back  street  toward  his  home.     But  at  the 
end  of  the  street,  he  encountered  Peter  Gergue. 

Gergue  saw  him  coming,  and  stopped,  and  fumbled  in  the 
tangle  of  hair  at  the  back  of  his  head  until  Wint  came  near. 
Wint  would  have  avoided  him,  but  there  was  no  way  to  do  this, 
and  so  he  said  coldly: 

"  Good  morning,  Pete." 

Gergue  grinned  slowly.  "Why  —  right  fair,"  he  agreed. 
"  Yes'r,  it's  a  right  fair  morning  —  if  you  look  at  it  that  way." 

Wint  nodded.  He  would  have  passed  by,  but  Gergue  stopped 
him.  "  I  was  coming  down  after  you,"  he  said. 

"Why?"  Wint   asked. 

"Oh  —  I  thought  you  might  want  company.  Heard  you 
was  here." 

"Want  anything  special?" 

"  We-ell  —  I  did  think  of  congratulating  you." 

Wint  smiled  coldly.     "Thanks.     That  all?" 

Gergue  rummaged  through  his  hair.  "Thought  you  might 
have  things  to  inquire  about." 

Wint  started  to  say  "  No  "  to  this,  then  changed  his  mind 
and  looked  steadily.  "You  —  you  mix  in  politics,  don't  you, 
Pete?  " 

Gergue  looked  startled.  "Why  —  some,"  he  admitted. 
"  Why,  yes,  I  might  say  —  some." 

"Friend  of  Congressman  Caretall's,  aren't  you?" 

Gergue  spat,  and  nodded  slowly.  "  I  like  to  help  him  out  — 
when  I  c'n  manage,"  he  agreed. 

Wint  smiled  again.  "  Then  you  know  how  this*  thing  hap 
pened." 

90 


JOAN  91 

"  Some,"  said  Peter. 

"Explain  it  to  me,"  Wint  invited.  "How  was  it  worked? 
And  — why?" 

Gergue  grinned  slyly.  Then  he  laughed,  a  shrill  burst  of 
merriment  of  a  sort  unusual  in  this  man.  When  this  mirth 
passed,  he  touched  Wint's  lapel.  "  Cleanest  piece  of  work  I 
ever  see,"  he  declared. 

"  How  was  it  done?  " 

"  Word  o'  mouth !  Word  o'  mouth !  Cong'essman  knew 
folks  was  expecting  something  f'om  him.  He  kept  'em  expect 
ing.  Told  everybody  he  was  going  to  vote  for  a  man  named 
Chase.  Got  'em  worked  up,  sittin'  on  needles  and  pins  and 
cockle  burrs  to  know  where  the  trick  come  in.  Everybody 
knowed  they  was  some  trick.  Then  —  last  minute  —  he  passed 
the  word  to  V.  R.  Kite,  and  him  and  Kite  passed  the  word 
around.  Everybody  figured  it  would  be  a  joke  on  your  paw. 
Whole  town  took  it  laughing,  and  went  and  done  what 
Cong'essman  told  'em  t'  do.  Writ  in  your  name  .  .  ." 

Wint  smiled  frostily.     "  Great  joke,  wasn't  it?  " 

Gergue  chuckled.  "Fine.  Take  V.  R.  Kite.  Tickled  him 
half  t'  death.  Like  t'  killed  Kite." 

"  Caretall  and  my  father  are  against  each  other,  of  course." 

"  Sure.  Your  paw  comes  to  the  Cong'essman,  high  and 
mighty,  offering  him  this  'nd  that.  That  wa'n't  no  way  to  go 
at  the  Cong'essman.  Amos  ain't  used  to  it." 

Wint  nodded.  "But  why  me?"  he  asked.  "Why  pick 
on  me?  " 

Gergue  waved  his  hand.  "  That  made  it  more  like  a  joke  on 
your  paw.  Everybuddy  knowed  what  your  paw  thinks  of  you. 
Figured  it'd  pupplex  him.  It  did,  too,  Wint.  It  certainly 
did  pupplex  your  paw." 

"  It  would,"  Wint  agreed.  "  But  —  I  should  think  Caretall 
would  as  soon  see  my  father  elected  as  me." 

"  Yo'r  paw  had  a  little  too  much  wind  in  his  sails.  Needed 
a  little  coolin'  off.  Amos  gave  it  to  him." 

"  But  how  about  Kite?  "  Wint  asked.  "  Why  was  he  so 
ready  to  fall  in  with  it?  " 

Gergue  looked  at  Wint  sidewise.     "Why,  he  don't  like  yo'r 


92  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

paw  so  very  much,"  he  explained,  with  an  appearance  of 
frankness,  "  and  besides  that,  Kite's  wet,  and  your  paw's  dry. 
That  stands  t'  reason." 

"  He  figured  I  would  be  wet,  of  course." 

Gergue  nodded  emphatically.  "  Natural,"  he  said.  "  Nat 
ural,  he  figured  that  way." 

"  Did   Caretall  have  that   idea,   too?  " 

Gergue  wagged  his  head.  "  We-ell,  now,"  he  parried,  "  Amos 
don't  lay  so  much  on  that  end  of  it.  He's  a  wet  man,  in  poli 
tics;  but  he  don't  touch  it  hisself.  I  guess  he  just  wanted  t'  give 
you  a  leg  up  —  see  what  you'd  do.  Amos  keeps  his  eye  on  the 
young  fellows,  that  way." 

They  had  crossed  the  tracks  while  they  were  talking,  and 
now  they  met  two  men.  Wint  knew  these  men  casually;  they 
knew  him.  They  were  workmen ;  and  they  saw  Wint  and  Gergue 
together,  and  grinned,  and  one  of  them  called :  "  Morning,  Mr. 
Mayor." 

Wint  smiled  at  them  amiably.     "  Good  morning." 

"  Congratulations!  " 

"  Thanks."  Wint's  cheeks  were  burning.  The  men  passed 
by,  and  he  and  Gergue  started  up  the  hill  by  a  back  street 
that  led  toward  his  home.  Neither  of  them  spoke.  Presently 
they  began  to  meet  other  men.  One  or  two  men  scowled  at 
Gergue,  stared  angrily  at  Wint;  but  for  the  most  part  they 
smiled  covertly,  and  voiced  congratulations.  Their  words 
seemed  to  Wint  to  mark  covert  jibes. 

After  a  time  the  two  came  to  a  cross  street  that  led  toward 
town;  and  here  Gergue  halted  and  looked  at  Wint  curiously. 
"  Was  there  anything  else?  "  he  asked. 

Wint  shook  his  head. 

"You  wasn't  thinking,  maybe,  of  walking  uptown?" 

"  Not  now." 

"  Going  on  home,  I  guess." 

"Yes." 

Gergue  nodded.  "All  right.  When  you  come  uptown,  you 
might  stop  in  and  see  me." 

"  I'll  see,"  Wint  told  him. 


JOAN  93 

"  Amos  aims  to  do  right  by  you,"  said  Gergue. 

"Much  obliged." 

"You  don't  want  to  hold  this  against  him." 

Wint  smiled  slowly.     "  Good-by,"  he  said. 

Gergue  nodded.  "  By-by,"  he  responded.  "  I'll  see  you 
again." 

He  turned  toward  town,  and  Wint  watched  him  for  a  moment, 
and  then  went  on  toward  his  home.  Muldoon  trotted  sedately 
before  him,  ranging  now  and  then  across  the  street  or  into  a 
yard  to  investigate  some  affair  of  his  own.  Wint  walked 
swiftly,  for  he  had  an  uneasy  feeling  of  nakedness  in  the  light 
of  open  day,  as  though  every  one  he  encountered  must  see 
the  shame  that  was  torturing  him.  He  came  to  his  home  through 
a  short  cut  that  brought  him  by  way  of  an  alley  to  the  kitchen 
door;  and  when  he  opened  the  door  and  stepped  into  the 
kitchen,  he  saw  Hetty  Morfee  there.  Hetty  was  rolling  biscuits 
on  a  board,  her  sleeves  rolled  to  the  elbows  on  her  creamy 
arms;  and  she  turned  at  the  sound  of  his  entrance  and  stood 
with  the  rolling  pin  in  one  hand,  brushing  back  the  hair  from 
her  eyes  with  the  other,  and  laughing  at  him  softly. 

"Oh,  you  Wint!  "  she  said. 

Wint  closed  the  kitchen  door  behind  him  and  faced  the  girl. 
"  Is  mother  here?  "  he  asked. 

"She's  in  next  door."  She  nodded  her  head  reproachfully. 
"You  certainly  have  started  something,  Wint." 

"Where's  father?" 

"  Uptown.  He  telephoned  just  now  to  know  if  you  had  come 
home.  He  ain't  coming  home  for  dinner." 

Wint  dropped  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  then  lifted  his  head. 
"  All  right,"  he  said.  "I  —  I  suppose  he's  mad  as  a  hatter." 

Hetty  chuckled  softly.  "  Mad  as  two  of  'em,"  she  declared. 
"  You  certainly  have  started  something  this  time,  Wint." 

He  looked  toward  the  biscuit  board.     "  Are  those  for  lunch?  " 

"  Uh-huh." 

"  How  soon  will  they  be  ready?  " 

"  Half  an  hour.  You  hungry?  "  She  studied  him,  solicitude 
lurking  in  her  eyes. 


94  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"Yes.     I   didn't   have   any   breakfast." 

The  girl  moved  toward  him  with  the  quick  instinct  of  woman. 
"  You  poor  kid !  I'll  get  you  something  now." 

He  lifted  his  hand  impatiently.  "  Never  mind.  Or  —  j  ust 
a  glass  of  milk." 

She  laughed,  crossing  the  room  toward  the  pantry.  "  You 
just  sit  down  and  see."  And  while  he  still  stood  irresolutely 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  she  was  back  with  bread  and  butter 
and  a  glass  of  jelly  and  a  bowl  of  milk.  She  spread  these 
things  upon  the  table,  and  cut  the  bread  for  him,  and  made  him 
sit  down  and  eat  while  she  hovered  over  him,  her  eyes  never 
leaving  the  brown  head  as  he  bent  above  his  plate.  Now  and 
then  she  laughed  softly,  and  more  than  once  she  repeated :  "  You 
surely  have  started  something  this  time." 

He  ate  ravenously.  He  had  not  realized  his  own  hunger. 
But  after  the  second  slice,  she  stopped  him.  "  Now  that's 
enough,"  she  declared.  "You'll  spoil  your  dinner." 

He  laughed,  the  first  time  he  had  laughed  that  day.  "  I  guess 
not,"  he  declared.  "  I  could  eat  a  house." 

She  smiled,  carrying  the  viands  back  to  their  places.  "  Where 
was  you  last  night?  "  she  asked  curiously. 

He  looked  up  at  her,  half  resentful,  half  glad  of  her  friend 
ship  and  understanding.  "  Weaver  House,"  he  said. 

She  made  a  little  grimace.  "  Golly !  You  must've  been  pie- 
eyed  for  fair." 

He  flushed,  but  he  nodded.     "  Yes." 

"And  look  what  they've  done  to  you.  It  don't  pay,  does 
it,  Wint?  " 

He  laughed.     "  I  suppose  not." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Your  paw's  awful  mad." 

He  got  up  stiffly.  "  I  suppose  so.  Well  —  he's  been  mad 
before." 

"And  your  maw's  upset." 

"  I'll  be  up  in  my  room,"  he  said.  "  Call  me  when  dinner's 
ready." 

She  was  back  at  her  biscuits,  laying  them  delicately  in  the 


JOAN  95 

pan.  "  Sure.  Go  ahead."  The  door  closed  behind  him. 
When  she  heard  the  click  of  a  latch,  the  girl  stopped  her  work 
for  an  instant,  and  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  the  closed  door. 
She  remained  thus  for  a  space;  then  brushed  her  arm  across 
her  forehead  as  though  a  lock  of  hair  distressed  her,  and  wen* 
on  with  her  task. 

Wint  went  to  his  room,  and  threw  aside  his  soiled  garments, 
and  bathed  and  was  half  dressed  when  Hetty  called  up  the 
stairs  that  dinner  was  ready.  He  came  down  into  the  hall 
as  his  mother  entered  the  front  door.  When  she  saw  him,  she 
lifted  her  hands,  and  ran  at  him,  and  poured  out  upon  him 
a  torrent  of  querulous  complaint.  "  Wint,  where  have  you 
been  all  this  time?  Your  father  is  so  mad.  He's  terrible  mad 
at  you.  I  never  saw  your  father  so  worked  up,  Wint.  I  don't 
see  what  you  had  to  go  and  do  a  thing  like  that  for  anyhow, 
Wint.  I  told  Mrs.  Hullis  this  morning  I  just  couldn't  see 
how  you  could  do  it.  Your  father  was  so  set  on  getting 
elected,  and  everything;  and  he'd  made  so  many  plans,  and 
when  he  came  home  last  night  I  said  to  him  — 

Hetty  called  from  the  dining-room  door:  "Dinner's  ready, 
ma'am." 

"All  right,  Hetty,  I'm  a-coming,"  Mrs.  Chase  assured  her. 
"Wint,  you  come  along.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  don't  see 
what  you're  going  to  do  about  it.  I  don't  see  —  I  said  to  your 
father  last  night  that  I  just  couldn't  see  how  you  could — " 

Wint  broke  in :  "  Mother  —  please !  It  wasn't  my  doing. 
I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  I  said  to  your  father  last  night,  when  he  came  home," 
she  insisted.  "  He  came  home  so  mad,  and  everything.  He  was 
in  a  terrible  state,  Wint.  He  ramped  and  tore  around  here 
like  he  was  a  crazy  man;  and  I  said  to  him  that  I  didn't  see 
how  a  son  could  do  a  thing  like  that  to  him.  He  was  tramping 
up  and  down,  and  he  kept  talking  about  you,  and  I  said  to 
him  that  I  — " 

"  I  tell  you  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  mother." 

"  I  think  Congressman  Caretall  ought  to  have  something 
better  to  do  than  to  come  home  here  and  stir  up  a  son  against 
his  father.  I  told  your  father  so ;  and  I  said  — " 


96  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  He  didn't  stir  me  up  against  father,  mother.  It  was  a  trick, 
a  political  game.  I  didn't  know  anything  about  it  till  they 
told  me  I'd  been  elected." 

"  I  said  to  him  that  I  just  couldn't  believe  it.  And  he  said 
if  it  wasn't  true  why  weren't  you  here  at  home  where  you 
belonged?  He  said  you  were  probably  down  at  Caretall's, 
laughing  at  your  father.  And  I  said  I  just  couldn't  see  how 
a  son  could  do  a  thing  like  that  to  a  father  like  him.  Because 
your  father  has  been  good  to  you,  Wint.  He's  been  mighty 
good  to  you;  and  he's  stood  a  lot.  I  said  to  him  that  he'd 
stood  a  lot,  and  he  said  you  were  probably  off  drinking  again 
somewhere,  and  that  you'd — " 

Hetty  came  in  from  the  kitchen  with  the  plate  of  biscuits, 
and  set  them  before  Mrs.  Chase,  and  looked  at  Wint  and 
laughed  and  pressed  her  hands  to  her  ears  and  grimaced  at 
Mrs.  Chase's  unconscious  head.  Wint  protested: 

"Mother,   I- 

Mrs.  Chase  broke  in.  "  Hetty,  those  biscuits  are  just  fine. 
I  declare,  your  things  always  seem  to  come  out  better  than 
mine.  I  wish  I  could  do  it  that  way.  I  wish  your  father 
was  at  home,  Wint.  He  likes  hot  biscuits  so.  But  goodness 
knows,  he  wouldn't  have  any  appetite  to  eat  anything  to-day. 
Hetty  told  me  when  she  called  me  to  come  home  that  he'd 
telephoned  he  wasn't  coming.  She  told  me  you  had  come, 
and  I  came  right  over  to  tell  you  that  I  just  didn't  see  how 
you  could  — " 

Wint  was  glad  at  last  to  finish  and  escape.  He  went  up 
to  his  room,  his  mother's  words  pursuing  him.  The  reaction 
had  set  in;  and  he  was  terribly  tired,  and  sick  and  full  of 
sleep.  He  flung  himself  on  his  face  on  the  bed,  and  he 
tossed  there  for  a  space,  thinking  miserably,  and  so  at  last  he 
fell  asleep. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  thrumming  knock  on  his  door,  and  sat 
up  and  called  huskily:  "Who's  that?  "  The  door  opened,  and 
his  father  came  in. 

His  father  came  in,  and  shut  the  door  behind  him.  Out 
side,  Wint  saw  his  mother.  She  was  saying  something;  and 


JOAN  97 

the  closing  door  cut  off  her  words.     His  father  ignored  her; 
he  slowly  turned  and  faced  Wint. 

It  was  late  afternoon,  almost  dusk.  Shadows  had  begun 
to  fill  the  room.  Wint  saw  that  his  father's  face  was  black; 
and  he  got  up  from  the  bed  and  stood  there  for  a  moment, 
and  he  saw  that  his  father  was  trembling.  He  took  a  step 
forward.  "  Father,"  he  said  unsteadily,  "  I  want  to  tell  you 
I  had  nothing  to  do  with  this.  I'm  sorry.  And  I'll  do  whatever 
you  say  to  make  things  right." 

The  restraint  which  the  elder  Chase  had  imposed  upon  himself 
fled  before  the  wind  of  passion.  He  lifted  his  clenched  hands 
as  though  he  would  bring  them  down  upon  Wint's  head. 
"You!  You!"  he  cried.  "You're  my  son  —  and  you  join 
with  drunkards  and  vagabonds  and  thieves  to  make  a  laughing 
stock  of  me." 

Wint  protested.     "I  did  not!     I  knew  nothing." 

"  Don't  lie  to  me,  Wint,"  his  father  cried.  The  elder  man's 
anger  was  terrible.  It  swept  away  the  poise  with  which  he 
faced  the  world,  it  left  him  nothing  but  his  wrongs;  and  these 
wrongs  and  his  own  rage  somehow  transfigured  and  ennobled 
him.  In  spite  of  himself,  Wint  had  never  respected  and  loved 
his  father  so  much  as  then.  He  cried  again,  almost  plead 
ingly: 

"  Dad  .  .  ." 

"  Be  quiet !  "  his  father  cried.  "  Don't  speak.  It  is  my  time 
to  speak.  I  have  kept  silent  too  long.  You  have  disgraced 
me  with  your  drunkenness;  and  now  you  make  a  joke  of  me 
before  the  world.  You  .  .  ." 

"  I  tell  you,  T  knew  nothing  of  this  till  it  was  done." 

"  You  lie.  You  lie,  Wint !  And  even  if  it  were  true,  you 
have  made  it  possible  by  —  by  your  debaucheries.  You  have 
given  them  the  chance  —  you  have  made  me  the  laughing 
stock  — "  he  flung  his  arms  wide.  "  Why  even  the  Cincinnati 
papers  have  the  story,  Wint.  They  —  the  whole  damned 
country  knows  .  .  ."  His  voice  broke  suddenly;  his  hands 
dropped  at  his  side.  Resentment  fought  with  affection  in  Wint; 
and  pride  stiffened  his  voice  as  he  said  again: 


98  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  I  told  you  I'd  do  anything,  dad." 

"  Anything?  What  good  will  that  do?  You  and  Caretall  — 
laughing  at  me!  I  won't  stand  it!  I'll  break  Caretall  if  it 
kills  me.  Caretall  is  a  scoundrel,  a  crook.  He's  debauched 
the  town  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  suddenly,  he  became  cold  and  still.  "  Come 
down  to  supper,  Wint,"  he  said  shortly.  "After  that,  you 
can  get  out.  I've  warned  you  enough  —  the  last  time.  I'm 
through." 

Wint  stiffened.     "Dad  .  .  ."  he  said  softly. 

His  father  made  a  fierce  gesture.  "  Be  quiet !  I  tell  you 
I  am  through."  He  whirled  to  the  door,  and  opened  it,  and 
was  gone  before  Wint  could  speak  again.  But  while  Wint 
still  stood  quiet,  he  returned  and  called:  "I  know  where  you 
were  last  night.  That  was  enough.  That  alone.  I'm  through. 
Through!  " 

This  time  he  did  not  return.  And  Wint  waited  for  a  space, 
and  then,  mechanically  and  automatically,  he  picked  up  his 
hat,  and  put  it  on,  and  went  down  the  stairs.  His  mother  and 
father  were  in  the  dining-room.  He  heard  his  mother's  voice. 
But  he  did  not  go  in. 

He  went  to  the  door  and  out,  and  down  the  walk  to  the 
street.  As  he  reached  the  pavement,  the  door  opened  behind 
him,  and  he  looked  back  and  saw  his  father  standing  there. 
For  a  moment,  the  two  looked  at  each  other;  then  the  elder 
man  turned  his  head,  and  went  back  into  the  house  and  closed 
the  door. 

Wint  walked  steadily  down  the  street.  He  did  not  know 
where  he  was  to  go;  he  did  not  think  of  this.  And  so  it  was 
without  his  own  volition  that  he  came  to  Joan's  home,  and 
saw  the  girl  sitting  in  a  chair  upon  the  veranda,  a  book  in  her 
lap. 

Her  eyes  met  his.  Her  eyes  were  very  serious  and  sad; 
but  Wint  turned  in,  and  came  to  the  steps,  and  stood  there 
before  her.  She  smiled  a  little  wistfully;  and  he  said,  under 
his  breath:  "Joan." 

She  made  no  move  to  answer  him.  He  said  again: 
"Joan  .  .  ."  And  then:  "Joan  .  .  ." 


JOAN  99 

She  bent  her  head  a  little,  but  her  eyes  held  his.  "  Wint," 
she  said,  so  softly  he  could  scarce  hear  her  words.  "  Wint  — 
I'm  sorry.  But  —  I  can't  go  on.  I  can't  —  trust  you,  Wint. 
This  is  good-by." 

He  felt  himself  shrink  a  little  at  the  word;  and  he  stood 
still  for  a  moment  till  his  senses  steadied.  Then  he  lifted  his 
head  a  little. 

"  I  don't  blame  you,"  he  told  her. 

She  said  again:  "Good-by!  "  And  he  nodded  and  echoed 
quietly: 

"  Good-by,  Joan." 

For  another  moment,  their  eyes  held  each  other.  Then  his 
dropped,  and  he  turned  and  went  down  to  the  street  again. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Mrs.  Moody  was  lighting  the  smoky  lamp 
in  the  office  of  the  Weaver  House  when  Wint  came  in.  She 
saw  him  and  grinned,  and  her  teeth  reflected  the  lamp's  light 
like  pearls.  "Why,  hello,  deary!  Back  again?  "  she  called. 

He  nodded.     "  The  same  room,  please,"  he  told  her. 

She  bustled  across  to  the  stairs,  and  paused  there  and  looked 
at  him  wisely  "A  little  drop  first,  in  the  kitchen?"  she 
invited. 

He  shook  his  head.     "No  —  nothing." 

And  so  presently  he  found  himself  in  the  place  where  he  had 
slept  that  sodden  sleep  the  night  before. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  STRATEGY   OF  AMOS 

WINT  had  returned  to  the  Weaver  House  in  a  numb 
revulsion  of  feeling.  He  was  hurt  and  angry  at 
the  whole  world;  and  he  was  wholly  at  sea  as  to 
what  he  should  do.  His  instinct  was  to  fight,  to  fight  the  thing 
out,  to  fight  his  father  and  to  prove  to  Joan  that  she  was 
mistaken  in  her  condemnation.  It  was  this  instinct,  with  an 
unspoken  thought  that  he  would  face  the  thing  honestly,  that 
sent  him  back  to  the  hovel  where  he  had  spent  the  night  before. 
That  was  where  he  belonged,  he  told  himself.  It  was  to  such 
places  that  his  father  and  Joan  had  consigned  him.  So  be  it. 
He  found  a  grim  sort  of  satisfaction  in  flaunting  the  stigma  of 
his  shame. 

The  greatest  single  force  in  Wint's  life  had  always  been  his 
resentment  of  dictation.  A  devil  of  contrariness  possessed  him; 
a  devil  of  false  pride  that  made  him  go  counter  to  all  warnings 
for  the  sheer  joy  of  opposition.  Thus  his  best  friends  became 
his  enemies;  for  their  good  advice  and  counsel  thrust  him  into 
evil  paths;  and  by  the  same  token,  those  who  thought  them 
selves  his  enemies  were  as  often  as  not  his  best  and  truest 
friends.  There  was  a  stubborn  streak  in  Wint  that  ruled  him; 
it  was  rare  that  the  gentler  side  of  him  had  the  ascendancy. 
One  of  those  rare  moments  had  come  when  he  faced  his  father 
on  this  day.  He  had  been  humble,  shamed,  regretful,  ready 
to  make  any  amends.  But  the  elder  Chase,  writhing  under  the 
ridicule  to  which  the  day  had  subjected  him,  had  been  in  no 
mood  for  gentleness;  and  the  result  of  the  interview  of  father 
and  son  had  been  a  parting  which  left  them  both  sore  and 
resentful. 

The  first  faint  anger  in  Wint's  heart  grew  swiftly.  When  he 
had  seen  Joan,  and  she  had  sent  him  away,  he  coupled  her  with 
his  father  in  his  thoughts.  They  were  both  against  him;  both 

100 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  -AMOS  101 

thought  him  nothing  better  than  a  drunkard;  both  thought 
him  a  treacherous  and  ribald  fool.  And  the  consciousness  of 
this  lifted  his  head  in  anger,  and  stiffened  his  heart,  so  that 
he  swore  he  would  fight  out  the  battle  and  prove  to  them 
they  were  wrong,  and  then  throw  his  newly  won  victory  in 
their  faces.  They  thought  him  a  drunken  sot;  very  well,  he 
would  fight  the  fight  on  that  basis.  They  thought  the  Weaver 
House  was  the  place  where  he  belonged;  very  well,  he  would 
fight  his  fight  from  that  brothel.  And  it  was  in  such  fashion 
as  this,  wearing  his  own  disgrace  like  a  plume,  that  he  re 
turned  to  Mrs.  Moody 's  disreputable  hostelry. 

When  he  was  alone  in  his  room,  he  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  He  rested  his  elbows  on 
his  knees,  the  cigarette  dangling  from  his  clasped  fingers,  and 
considered.  And  as  he  thought,  his  face  hardened,  hardened 
with  the  effort  to  control  his  own  pity  for  himself.  He  was 
immensely  sorry  for  his  own  plight,  immensely  resentful  of 
the  misunderstandings  of  which  he  was  a  victim.  And  he 
was  terribly  lonely.  He  missed  companionship  —  Jack  Routt, 
Gergue,  even  Muldoon.  Muldoon  would  have  been  the  most 
welcome  of  them  all,  but  he  had  left  Muldoon  at  home.  He 
regretted  this;  and  his  regret  at  last  became  so  keen  that  he 
could  not  bear  it.  With  a  sudden  resolution,  he  tossed  the 
half-burned  cigarette  into  the  grate,  and  went  down  the  stairs 
and  crossed  the  railroad  and  bent  his  steps  toward  home.  Mul 
doon,  at  least,  would  not  condemn  him.  Muldoon  was  a  faith 
ful  sort;  a  good  pup  .  .  . 

He  took  alleyways  and  unfrequented  streets,  and  avoided 
chance  encounters.  Thus  he  came  near  his  home  without 
meeting  any  one,  and  he  went  in  through  the  alley  and  halted 
under  a  cherry  tree  that  shaded  Muldoon's  kennel,  beside  the 
coal  house,  and  whistled  softly.  The  dog  might  be  in  his 
kennel;  he  might  be  in  the  house;  he  might  be  roaming  abroad 
in  search  of  his  master. 

He  whistled  three  times,  and  got  no  response.  Muldoon 
was  somewhere  beyond  hearing.  He  might  be  in  the  house ;  and 
if  he  were  and  heard  Wint's  whistle,  Wint  knew  he  would  bark 
a  demand  that  he  be  allowed  to  come  out. 


102          ••:..-••  THE-  CREA.T  ACCIDENT 

So  Wint  whistled  more  shrilly;  a  long,  familiar  call. 

For  a  time  he  got  no  answer  to  this.  He  tried  again,  and 
this  time  he  heard  the  faint  sound  of  a  muffled  bark  from  inside 
the  house.  This  bark  came  nearer,  became  clamorous,  located 
itself  at  the  kitchen  door,  where  Wint  could  hear  Muldoon's 
claws  rattling  on  the  panels. 

He  started  toward  the  kitchen,  then  halted.  For  the  windows 
were  lighted;  and  at  one  of  them  Hetty  Morfee  appeared.  She 
was  wiping  dishes,  and  when  she  came  to  the  window  she  held 
a  plate,  gripped  in  a  dishcloth,  in  her  left  hand,  and  shaded 
her  eyes  with  her  right  as  she  tried  to  peer  out  into  the  night. 

Muldoon's  close-cropped  head  appeared  beside  her  at  the 
window  for  an  instant,  and  he  barked  again.  Wint  shrank 
back  into  the  shadow.  He  did  not  wish  to  be  discovered  and 
he  was  unwilling  to  risk  encountering  his  father  or  his  mother 
by  going  to  the  house.  He  shrank  back  into  the  darkness;  but 
he  whistled  again,  and  this  time  Hetty  left  the  window  and 
opened  the  door,  and  Muldoon  came  out  like  a  projectile,  and 
found  Wint  under  the  cherry  tree,  and  slavered  over  him. 

Wint  was  so  absorbed  in  the  dog  that  he  did  not  see,  until 
too  late,  that  Hetty  had  followed  Muldoon.  She  came  on 
him,  under  the  tree,  laughing  softly.  "  It's  you,  is  it?  "  she 
called. 

"  Yes." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  I  came  for  Muldoon.     He's  mine." 

She  chuckled  lightly.  "You're  the  original  Mister  Trouble, 
Wint.  Your  paw  says  he  never  wants  to  see  you  again,  and 
your  maw's  gone  over  to  tell  the  neighbors  all  about  it." 

"Where's  father?" 

"  He  stomped  off  uptown  after  supper." 

Wint  fumbled  with  the  dog's  head.  "Thanks  for  letting 
Muldoon  out,"  he  said. 

"That's  all  right.  Don't  you  want  some  supper?  Come 
on  in." 

"  No." 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  spend  the  night?  " 

"  The  Weaver  House." 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  AMOS  103 

She  gave  an  exclamation  of  disgust.     "That  dirty  joint!  " 

"  They  say  that's  where  I  belong.  I  can  stand  it  if  they 
can." 

"Oh,  don't  be  a  nut!  " 

He  turned  away  into  the  alley,  Muldoon  at  his  heels.  She 
called  after  him:  "What's  your  hurry?  " 

"  Good  night." 

"  Your  paw'll  come  around." 

Wint  said  nothing.  He  was  moving  away.  She  ran  after 
him  and  caught  his  arm.  "Wint!  Don't  be  a  nut!  Come 
on  back!  He'll  come  around." 

He  released  his  arm  and  shook  his  head.  "That's  up  to 
him,"  he  said.  "  I've  eaten  dirt.  All  I  intend  to." 

She  lifted  her  shoulders,  laughed.  "  Oh  —  all  right.  If 
there's  anything  you  want  from  here,  let  me  know  and  I'll  get 
it  for  you." 

"  Thanks.     And  —  good  night!  " 

"  Good  night,"  she  said ;  and  moved  back  into  the  shadow 
of  the  coal  shed  and  watched  him  disappear.  Leaning  there, 
one  hand  fumbling  at  her  throat,  she  was  a  wistful  and  unhappy 
figure.  But  when  Wint  was  gone,  she  laughed  harshly,  and 
turned  back  to  her  work  in  the  kitchen. 

If  Hetty  had  wished  to  confirm  Wint  in  his  resolution  to  go 
his  stubborn  way,  she  could  have  taken  no  better  means  than  to 
repeat  her  warning:  "Don't  be  a  nut!"  He  took  a  certain 
delight  in  being  thus  unreasonable.  What  he  did  was  his 
own  affair;  it  concerned  no  one  else.  And  he  returned  to 
the  Weaver  House  in  a  surprisingly  peaceful  frame  of  mind 
and  climbed  to  his  room  and  went  to  bed  with  Muldoon  curled 
on  the  floor  beside  him,  and  slept  soundly  and  healthfully. 

He  woke  in  the  morning  to  find  Muldoon  sitting  by  the  bed, 
watching  him  and  waiting  for  him  to  stir.  When  he  opened  his 
eyes,  Muldoon  wriggled  and  yawned  and  licked  his  hand,  and 
Wint  chuckled,  and  got  up  briskly,  and  dressed  himself  and 
went  downstairs.  The  office  was  empty  when  he  came  down, 
for  the  hour  was  early;  and  he  went  out  without  seeing  any 
one,  and  followed  the  railroad  tracks  to  the  station.  There  was 


104  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

a  lunch  cart  near  the  station;  and  he  crowded  in  among  the 
toil-grimed  crew  of  the  night  freight  and  ate  a  Hamburg  steak 
sandwich  garnished  with  a  biting  slice  of  onion,  and  drank  a 
great  mug  of  steaming  coffee.  Some  of  the  men  recognized  him, 
and  they  talked  to  him  with  an  unwilling  respect  in  their 
manner.  He  liked  this.  They  did  not  seem  to  be  laughing 
at  him,  although  they  professed  interest  in  the  manner  of 
his  election,  and  asked  him  how  he  had  worked  it,  and  what 
he  was  going  to  do  now.  He  told  them,  honestly  enough,  that 
he  had  known  nothing  about  it  beforehand;  and  he  told  them, 
with  equal  honesty,  that  he  was  asleep  in  the  Weaver  House 
when  the  word  was  brought  to  him.  They  seemed  surprised 
that  he  should  state  these  things  without  attempt  at  palliation; 
and  they  seemed  to  approve  of  him  for  doing  so.  Their  atti 
tude  gave  him  renewed  confidence,  so  that  he  went  up  toward 
town  with  his  head  high,  ready  to  look  men  in  the  eye. 

He  began  to  meet  people  at  once.  They  were  for  the  most 
part  men  going  to  their  work;  and  some  of  them  eyed  him 
angrily,  and  some  seemed  inclined  to  laugh  at  him;  but  most 
of  them,  like  the  railroad  men,  gave  evidence  of  a  certain  new 
respect.  They  hailed  him  with  effusive  cordiality  as  "  Mr. 
Mayor,"  but  they  seemed  a  little  afraid  of  the  sound  of  their 
own  words,  a  little  afraid  of  what  his  attitude  might  be. 

Wint  had  made  his  plans.  He  must  get  some  clothes  from 
his  home,  must  cut  himself  off  completely  from  his  father. 
To  this  end  he  sought  Jack  Routt.  Routt,  like  every  one  in 
town,  went  to  the  Post  Office  each  morning  for  his  mail;  and 
Wint  found  him  there. 

Routt  shook  his  hand  heartily.  "  Wint,  congratulations !  " 
he  said,  under  his  breath.  "  This'll  be  a  great  thing  for  you. 
It  will  steady  you,  Wint." 

Wint  shook  his  head,  some  of  the  sullen  anger  of  the  night 
before  returning.  He  had  no  wish  to  be  steadied,  and  he  said 
so.  "  I  can  take  care  of  myself,"  he  told  Routt. 

Jack  nodded.  "  So  you  can.  But  you  need  something  to 
hold  you  down.  And  this'll  do  it."  He  nudged  Wint  in  the 
ribs,  smiling  slyly.  "  Y'  know,  you've  been  hitting  it  too  strong 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  AMOS  105 

lately.  You  don't  know  when  to  stop,  Wint.  This  will  put 
the  brakes  on.  Make  you  tend  to  business." 

Wint  brushed  his  hand  across  Routt's  face  abruptly.  "Cut 
it,"  he  said.  "Say,  Jack,  I  want  you  to  do  something  for 
me." 

"  Anything  in  the  world." 

"My  father  is  sore.  He  thinks  I  was  in  on  this.  So  he 
kicked  me  out  last  night." 

"  Kicked  you  out?  "  Routt  was  startled  and  indignant. 
"Why,  say,  that's —  Where  did  you  go?  Why  didn't  you 
come  over  to  my  place?  " 

Wint  said  consciously:  "No  —  I  went  to  the  Weaver  House. 
They  know  me  there." 

Routt  looked  quickly  around  to  see  if  any  one  had  heard. 
"  Sh-h-h !  "  he  warned.  "  Say,  that  was  a  fool  thing  to  do. 
Don't  let  any  one  find  it  out.  You  want  to  walk  straight 
now  — " 

Wint  cut  in.  "  I  want  you  to  go  out  home  and  get  my  steamer 
trunk  and  pack  it  with  some  things.  There's  a  blue  suit  in 
my  closet.  And  shirts,  and  so  on.  Get  my  overcoat,  too. 
Mother  will  show  you  —  or  Hetty." 

Routt  looked  at  him  quickly.     "  Hetty  who?  " 

"Hetty  Morfee." 

Routt  looked  at  Wint  and  laughed  softly.  "Oh  —  she's 
working  for  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Nice  kid,  isn't  she?  " 

"  Yes.     And  —  as  I  said  —  she'll  help  you  if  mother  won't." 

Routt  nodded.  "All  right,"  he  agreed.  "I'll  go  out  this 
morning.  Where'll  I  send  the  trunk?  Weaver  House?  " 

"I'll  send  for  it.     You  just  pack  it." 

Routt  touched  Wint's  arm.  "I'll  do  it,"  he  said  again. 
"  But  Wint, —  for  the  love  of  Mike,  don't  make  a  fool  of 
yourself!  Thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  take  hold,  run  the  town 
right,  and  make  a  name  for  yourself.  It's  a  great  chance,  Wint. 
Make  everybody  see  what  you've  got  in  you.  And  it'll  be  the 
making  of  you,  Wint." 


106  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

The  distribution  of  the  morning's  mail  to  the  boxes  was 
ended  just  then,  and  the  windows  opened.  Routt  broke  off 
and  went  to  get  his  mail,  and  Wint,  still  resentful  at  Routt's 
insistence  on  the  moral  advantages  of  his  situation,  went  to 
the  window.  Dave  Ho  wells,  one  of  the  postal  clerks,  was 
there;  and  before  Wint  could  speak,  he  had  offered  his  con 
gratulations.  These  continual  good  wishes  were  beginning  to 
irk  Wint.  He  nodded  impatiently.  "  Dave,"  he  said,  "  I  want 
you  to  hold  my  mail  hereafter.  Don't  send  it  to  the  house." 

"  Oh,  we  always  put  it  in  your  father's  box,"  Howells  told 
him. 

"Well,  don't  do  that.     Hold  it.     I'll  call  for  it." 

The  clerk  wanted  to  ask  questions,  but  decided  not  to  do 
so.  He  took  out  a  card  and  wrote  something  on  it.  "  I  think 
there's  a  letter  for  you  in  the  box  now,"  he  said.  "  I'll  give  it 
to  you." 

Wint  nodded;  and  a  moment  later  the  man  handed  him  an 
envelope,  and  Wint  turned  away  from  the  window.  He  met 
his  father,  face  to  face,  at  the  door  of  the  Post  Office.  Neither 
of  them  spoke. 

Wint  had  dropped  the  letter  into  his  pocket  without  looking 
at  it.  When  he  reached  the  hotel  on  the  corner,  he  turned 
in,  and  sat  down  on  one  of  the  deep,  leather  chairs  in  the  lobby, 
and  drew  out  the  envelope.  The  address,  he  saw,  was  type 
written.  The  letter  had  been  mailed  in  town.  The  envelope 
was  plain;  and  when  he  opened  it  he  saw  that  the  paper  it 
contained  bore  no  distinguishing  mark. 

The  letter,  like  the  address,  was  typewritten,  and  Wint  read 
it  once,  and  read  it  again  with  slowly  kindling  resentment. 
It  said: 

"Dear  Wint:— 

"You  have  made  ducks  and  drakes  of  your  life.  And  you 
have  made  yourself  the  butt  of  the  town's  jokes.  And  you  have 
made  those  who  loved  you  the  objects  of  derision. 

"  But  your  election  as  Mayor  gives  you  the  finest  chance  a 
man  ever  had  to  retrieve  those  old  mistakes,  to  make  a  man  of 
yourself,  and  to  make  a  fine  town  of  Hardiston. 

"Take  hold.     Word  hard.     Live  straight.     And  be  sure  that 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  AMOS  107 

there  are  some  true  friends  who  will  watch  you  lovingly  and 
sympathetically,  and  hope  and  pray  for  your  success." 

This  letter  was  unsigned.  Wint  read  it  a  second  time,  and 
then  with  tense,  stiff  fingers  he  tore  it  into  little  bits  and 
dropped  these  bits  into  a  wide,  brass  cuspidor  beside  his  chair. 
As  the  scraps  of  paper  fluttered  from  his  hand,  he  clenched  his 
fists;  and  he  looked  about  to  see  if  any  one  had  been  watching. 

He  hated  this  preaching,  this  morality,  this  harping  on  the 
hope  of  his  redemption.  He  was  all  right;  no  harm  in  him. 
But  they  would  not  leave  him  alone.  They  nagged  at  him; 
nagged  ...  He  hated  it. 

He  wondered,  as  an  undercurrent  to  this  rage,  who  had 
written  the  letter.  It  might  have  been  his  father,  or  his  mother, 
or  Routt.  Routt  was  a  sanctimonious  ass  about  some  things. 
Or  it  might  have  been  .  .  .  He  thought  it  was  probably  the 
minister  of  his  father's  church;  and  he  grinned  with  dry  relish 
at  the  thought.  The  old  man  must  have  been  sadly  shocked  at 
Wint  more  than  once;  and  this  letter  sounded  just  like  him. 
Blithering,  self-righteous  .  .  . 

He  lunged  up  from  his  chair,  boiling  furiously.  All  his 
determination  to  stick  it  out  was  gone.  He  would  not  do  it, 
would  not  make  a  righteous  spectacle  of  himself  for  the  edifica 
tion  of  these  old  women.  He  went  out  and  turned  up  the  street 
past  the  Court  House,  walking  blindly,  storming  inwardly.  He 
would  get  out  of  town,  shake  the  dust  of  the  place  off  his  feet. 
Let  them  find  a  new  Mayor. 

He  was  still  fuming  thus  when,  in  front  of  the  Court  House, 
he  met  Peter  Gergue.  Peter  rummaged  through  his  back  hair 
and  grinned  at  Wint.  "Saw  you  coming,"  he  explained. 
"  Thought  you  might  be  looking  f'r  me.  So  I  came  down." 

"  I'm  not  looking   for  you,"   said  Wint. 

Gergue  nodded.  "All  right,"  he  assented.  "Mind  if  I 
walk  along  with  you?  Going  on  this  way?  " 

Wint  halted  in  his  tracks.  "What's  up?  "  he  asked  sharply. 
"  What  do  you  want?  " 

"Me?"  Peter  ejaculated.  "Why  — me?  I  don't  want 
nothing." 


108  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  What  are  you  so  anxious  to  keep  an  eye  on  me  for,  then? 
I  don't  want  you." 

Gergue  hesitated,  and  he  looked  across  the  street  toward 
his  office;  and  at  last  he  leaned  toward  Wint  and  said  slyly: 
"  Tell  you  th'  truth,  it  ain't  me.  Amos  is  over  at  my  place.  He 
see  you  coming,  and  he  was  worried  f'r  fear  you'd  come  up 
and  find  him  there.  He  knows  you're  mad  at  him.  Don't  want 
to  see  you.  Don't  want  to  listen  to  you.  Knows  you  got  a 
fair  kick,  and  he  don't  like  to  listen  to  kicks." 

Wint  looked  across  the  way,  and  then  at  Peter;  and  then, 
without  a  word,  he  started  across  the  street.  Peter  went  hur 
riedly  after  him.  "  Say,"  he  begged,  "  you  ain't  going  — " 

"  I'm  going  to  tell  that  old  scamp  what  I  think  of  him." 

Peter  pleaded.  "Oh,  now,  Wint  — he'll  be  mad  at  me." 
He  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  Wint's  arm.  Wint  shook  it  off. 

"What  do  I  care  what  he  thinks  of  you?  "  he  demanded. 
"Let  go." 

"  You  don't  want  t'  see  him,  Wint." 

Wint  went  stubbornly  ahead.  He  turned  into  the  stairs  that 
led  up  to  Peter's  office;  and  Gergue  sighed. 

"  Glory!  Well  —  all  right,  then.  I'll  trail  along,"  he  said; 
and  then  he  smiled  at  Wint's  ascending  back  with  amiable 
satisfaction  and  followed  Wint  up  the  stairs. 

Wint  had  never  been  in  Peter's  office  before.  He  halted  in 
the  doorway,  struck  by  the  slack  disorder  of  the  place.  There 
were  spider  webs  in  every  corner;  there  was  dust  everywhere. 
The  soft  floor  had  been  worn  by  many  feet  till  every  knot  stood 
up  like  a  rounded  knob,  and  every  nail  upreared  a  shining 
head.  The  door  of  the  wardrobe  hung  open,  revealing  some 
battered  books  inside.  The  old,  oilcloth-covered  table  at  the 
window  was  littered  with  papers  and  rusty  pens,  and  sagged 
weakly  under  the  weight  of  the  books  upon  it.  At  this  table, 
when  Wint  came  in,  sat  Congressman  Amos  Caretall.  The 
Congressman  saw  Wint,  and  got  up  hurriedly,  eyes  squint 
ing,  head  on  one  side.  He  looked  distinctly  apologetic;  and 
when  he  saw  Peter  behind  Wint,  he  eyed  his  satellite  reproach 
fully. 

Wint  stormed  across  the  room  to  face  the  Congressman;  but 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  AMOS  109 

even  while  he  approached  the  older  man,  some  of  his  anger 
died  in  him.  Amos  was  so  frankly  unhappy,  he  was  so  apol 
ogetic,  the  tilt  of  his  head  was  so  plaintive.  Nevertheless  Wint 
cried :  "  What  right  had  you  to  use  my  name  in  this  way, 
Congressman?  " 

Caretall  shook  his  head  humbly.  "  Not  a  right  in  the  world, 
Wint." 

"  It  was  a  dirty  trick.     Underhand." 

The  Congressman  nodded.  "  I  know  it,  Wint,"  he  assented. 
"  I  c'n  see  that  now.  All  the  trouble  it's  made  and  everything. 
If  I'd  knowed  .  .  .  But  you  see,  a  man  gets  to  playing  the 
game,  and  he  don't  stop  to  think  like  he  oughter." 

"  You  hadn't  any  right  to  do  it,"  Wint  insisted ;  but  he 
was  weakening.  Nothing  is  so  disarming  as  acquiescence;  and 
when  a  man  condemns  himself,  it  is  human  nature  to  wish  to 
defend  him. 

"  I  know  it,"  Amos  repeated.  "  I  ain't  got  a  word  to  say, 
Wint.  Except  that  I'll  help  to  straighten  things  out  so  you 
won't  have  to  serve." 

Wint  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment.     "I  —  what's  that?  " 

"  I  say,  I'll  help  you  fix  things  so  you  won't  have  to  take  it." 

"  What  makes  you  think  I  don't  want  to  take  it?  " 

Amos  spread  out  his  hands  like  a  man  who  has  nothing  to 
conceal.  "  Why,  that's  common  sense.  I'd  ought  to  have 
knowed.  It's  a  hard  job.  Prob'ly  you  couldn't  swing  it. 
Anyway,  it  means  work,  and  stickin'  to  the  grindstone;  and 
you're  a  young  fellow.  You  like  your  good  times.  You 
wouldn't  want  to  be  tied  down  to  anything  this  way." 

Wint  laughed  derisively.  "  You  think  you  know  a  whole  lot 
about  me,  don't  you?  " 

Amos  smiled.  "  Well,  Wint,"  he  returned.  "  I've  seen  some 
of  life.  I  know  a  lively  young  fellow  like  you  don't  want  to 
take  on  a  job  that  means  work.  And  you're  right,  o'  course. 
It  ain't  the  job  f'r  you.  You  ain't  fitted  for  it.  You  couldn't 
manage  it.  You're  right.  I  hadn't  ought  to  have  got  you 
into  this.  But  I'll  help  get  you  out.  That's  th'  least  I  can  do." 

Wint  looked  at  the  Congressman  with  level  eyes  for  a  mo 
ment;  and  then  he  turned  and  looked  out  of  window,  saying 


110  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

nothing.  Amos  caught  Peter  Gergue's  eye,  and  Peter  winked 
at  him.  Amos  said  humbly :  "  I  sure  am  sorry  about  this, 
Wint.  It's  made  it  hard  for  you.  You  can't  stay  here  now. 
You  might  go  over  to  Washin'ton,  Wint.  I  c'd  get  you 
somethin'  easy,  there." 

Wint  turned  back  to  him  abruptly;  and  there  was  a  catch 
in  his  voice.  "  Congressman,"  he  said,  half  laughing,  "  you 
owe  me  something." 

Caretall  nodded.  "That's  right,  Wint.  'Nd  I'm  ready  to 
pay." 

"All  right.  Here's  what  I  want  you  to  do."  He  hesitated, 
extended  his  hand.  "  I  know  I'm  not  fit  for  this  job,  sir,"  he 
said  reluctantly.  "  But  —  if  you'll  give  me  a  hand  and  help 
along  —  I'd  like  to  tackle  it." 

Amos  looked  doubtful.  "  Now,  Wint  —  don't  you  get  wrong 
notions.  No  sense  you're  sticking  in  this  mess.  I'll  get  you 
out  without  any  — " 

Wint  interrupted  him  angrily:  "You  can't  get  me  out. 
Nor  any  one  else.  I'm  in  and  I'll  stay  in.  But  —  I'd  like  to 
have  your  advice  and  help  when  I  need  it." 

And  the  Congressman  yielded.  He  took  Wint's  hand.  "  All 
right,"  he  agreed.  "  I'll  back  you.  I  don't  know  as  you're 
right,  and  I  don't  know  as  you're  wrong.  If  you  can  get 
away  with  it." 

"  I  intend  to." 

Amos  nodded.  "Sure  you  intend  to.  But  can  you? 
Well  —  we've  got  to  see."  He  hesitated,  seemed  to  be  thinking. 
"  I  hear  your  father  and  you've  broke,"  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  That's  too  bad.     Where  are  you  living?  " 

"  The  Weaver  House,"  said  Wint  defiantly.  But  his  defiance 
was  misplaced.  Congressman  Caretall  nodded  approvingly. 

"That's  fine,"  he  said.  "Old  Mother  Moody  sets  a  right 
good  table,  when  she's  a  mind  to.  I  wish  I  c'd  live  down  there 
myself.  It's  a  good  plan."  He  looked  at  Wint  and  winked 
slyly.  "Always  a  good  plan  to  play  to  the  workingman,"  he 
explained.  "  Good  idea  of  yours,  Wint.  Living  down  there. 
Get  the  workingmen  and  the  railroad  men  and  all  to  sympa- 


THE  STRATEGY  OF  AMOS  111 

thizing  with  you.  They'll  play  you  for  a  martyr,  and  back 
you  strong.  You'll  make  a  good  politician,  Wint.  I  c'n 
see  that." 

Wint  shook  his  head.  "It's  not  politics,"  he  said.  "I  — 
don't  intend  to  stay  there.  Just  till  I  get  settled  uptown. 
Somewhere." 

Amos  studied  him.  "  Pshaw,  now !  That's  too  bad.  It'd 
been  a  good  play,  Wint." 

Wint  laughed.     "  I'll  play  the  game  some  other  way." 

The  Congressman  nodded.  He  remained  silent  for  a  moment, 
then  said  thoughtfully,  "  I  was  thinking  .  .  .  You  and  me  has 
got  to  do  a  lot  of  talking,  planning.  I  wish  you  could  come 
and  stay  with  me  till  your  paw  comes  'round." 

Wint  shook  his  head.  "  Thanks,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  That's 
good  of  you.  But  I'll  — "  He  hesitated ;  for  through  the 
window  he  had  seen,  across  the  street,  Jack  Routt  and  Joan 
together.  They  were  talking  briskly;  and  Joan  was  laughing 
at  something  Routt  had  said.  Wint  stared  at  them,  with 
slowly  burning  eyes;  and  before  he  could  continue  Gergue 
nudged  him  in  the  side  and  told  the  Congressman  smilingly: 

"  That  'uz  a  bad  break,  Amos.     He  can't  come  live  with  you." 

Wint  looked  at  him.  "  Why  not?  "  he  asked;  and  Amos  said 
to  Gergue: 

"That's  right,   Peter.     I'd  forgot." 

"Why  not?"  Wint  repeated  impatiently;  he  glanced  again 
toward  the  two  across  the  street. 

"  Why,  he  means  Miss  Joan  wouldn't  like  it,"  the  Congress 
man  explained. 

"  Why  wouldn't  she?  " 

Gergue  pointed  across  the  street.  "She'd  soon  teach  you 
manners,"  he  chuckled.  "  The  Congressman  here's  got  a  nice- 
looking  daughter  of  his  own,  you  know." 

Wint's  hand  clenched  at  his  side.  "  You're  all  wrong  there," 
he  said  curtly;  and  then  to  Amos:  "I  think  I'll  accept  your 
invitation,  after  all,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  IV 

INTERLUDE 

THE  weeks  between  his  election  and  his  inauguration 
Wint  spent  as  a  guest  at  Amos  Caretall's  home.  At 
which  the  townsfolk  put  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks 
and  smiled  behind  the  back  of  the  elder  Chase.  This  open 
alliance  between  Wint  and  the  Congressman  was  taken  as  con 
fession  that  Wint's  election  had  been  planned  between  them; 
and  after  a  day  or  two  Wint  perceived  the  hopelessness  of  de 
nial,  and  perceived,  too,  that  those  who  believed  him  concerned 
in  the  trick  respected  him  the  more  for  it.  Therefore,  Wint 
ceased  to  deny;  and  it  was  one  of  Amos  Caretall's  rules  never 
to  discuss  a  thing  accomplished. 

Between  Amos  and  the  young  man,  a  strong  friendship  began 
to  develop  in  these  weeks.  Congressman  Caretall  was  a  good 
politician,  largely  through  the  advice  and  counsel  of  Peter 
Gergue;  but  he  was  also  a  man  of  level  head  and  good  common 
sense,  and  he  found  beneath  Wint's  pride  and  stubbornness  a 
surprisirfg  store  of  good  qualities.  A  week  after  Wint  went  to 
live  at  his  house,  he  said  as  much  to  Gergue. 

"  He's  a  fine  boy,  Peter,"  he  declared.  "  Looks  to  me  like 
a  colt  that  hadn't  been  gentled  right." 

Gergue  nodded  slowly  and  scratched  the  back  of  his  head, 
tilting  his  hat  forward  with  his  knuckles.     "  He  has  his  points," 
he  agreed.     "  But  —  he  ain't  set  in  th'  traces  yet,  Congressman." 
Amos  looked  at  the  man.     "  What's  wrong?  " 
"  Noth  V,"  said  Peter.     "  Noth'n'.     But  —  there  will  be." 
Jack  Routt  brought  Wint's  trunk  to  the  Caretall  house  and, 
before  he  left  that  day,  he  took  occasion  to  drop  a  word  of 
warning  in  Wint's  ear.     *'  Look  out  for  Agnes,"  was  his  warn 
ing.     "  She's  the  darndest  little  flirt  you  ever  saw." 
Wint  lifted  his  head  angrily.     "Cut  it  out,  Jack!  " 
Routt  laughed.     "  I'm  only  giving  you  some  good  advice," 
he  insisted.     "You  know  —  a  certain  young  lady  will  not  be 

112 


INTERLUDE  113 

pleased  if  you  pay  Agnes  too  much  attention.  And  Agnes  loves 
to  make  trouble." 

Wint  repeated:  "  Shut  up!  Drop  it!  "  And  Routt  lifted  his 
shoulders  and  obeyed. 

Two  or  three  days  after  the  election,  Wint  remembered  that 
he  was  supposed  to  be  working  in  his  father's  office  at  the 
furnace.  With  an  unadmitted  twist  of  conscience,  he  went 
down  to  the  office,  half  hoping  to  see  his  father  and  find  some 
common  ground  for  a  reconciliation.  But  the  elder  Chase  was 
not  there,  and  the  office  manager  greeted  Wint  coldly  and  told 
him  that  his  place  had  been  filled.  Wint  had  ten  days'  salary 
due  him,  and  the  manager  paid  it  punctiliously.  Wint  took  the 
money  without  thinking,  thrust  it  in  his  pocket,  and  went  back 
uptown. 

While  he  was  in  college,  he  had  been  on  an  allowance;  since 
then  his  father  had  paid  him  a  salary  out  of  proportion  to  his 
deserts.  This  was  one  of  the  vanities  of  the  elder  Chase.  His 
own  youth  had  been  hard  and  straitened;  and  he  took  a  keen 
delight  in  lavishing  upon  Wint  the  money  he  himself  had 
lacked.  He  did  this,  not  to  please  Wint,  but  to  please  himself; 
and  whenever  Wint  crossed  him,  he  was  accustomed  to  bring 
up  the  matter,  to  remind  Wint  of  his  good  fortune  as  though 
it  were  a  reproach. 

"  Be  sure  I  never  had  money  to  spend,  when  I  was  your  age," 
he  was  fond  of  saying.  "And  you  roll  in  it.  You  ought  to 
be  ashamed,  Wint.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed." 

Then  he  would  give  Wint  twenty  dollars  and  tell  him  to  mend 
his  ways;  and  afterward  he  would  complain  to  Mrs.  Chase  of 
Wint's  ingratitude. 

Wint  had  always  taken  this  money  without  scruple.  When 
ever  inner  doubts  perplexed  him,  he  would  say :  "  He's  got 
more  than  he  can  use.  I  might  as  well  have  it  as  any  one 
else."  In  all  honesty,  he  knew  the  falsity  of  such  an  argument; 
but  he  used  it  successfully  to  stifle  the  reproaches  of  his  own 
heart. 

A  day  or  two  after  his  visit  to  the  office,  however,  Amos 
Caretall  asked  him:  "Wint,  you  need  any  money?  " 

Wint  shook  his  head. 


114  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  Didn't  know  but  you  might,"  Amos  insisted.  "  Carry  you 
over  till  your  salary  starts." 

"  I've  got  enough,"  Wint  said.  "  Dad  was  always  pretty  lib 
eral.  Gave  me  more  than  I  could  spend." 

Amos  did  not  seem  surprised  at  this.  He  nodded  his  head. 
"  That's  good,"  he  agreed.  "  If  any  one  had  told  me,  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  it.  Wouldn't  have  believed  Senior  had 
so  much  sense.  Keeps  you  in  his  debt,  like,  don't  he?  Keeps 
you  d'pendent  on  him?  " 

Wint  had  never  thought  of  it  in  that  way,  and  he  did  not  like 
the  thought.  He  looked  uneasy.  Amos  went  on,  puffing  at 
his  old  black  pipe:  "Guess  he  figures  to  get  it  all  back  some 
way.  'F  he  sh'd  come  and  ask  you  for  something,  after  you're 
in,  you'd  naturally  have  to  give  it  to  him.  Yes,  Senior's  a 
smart  man." 

They  were  sitting  in  front  of  the  coal  fire  in  Amos'  sitting 
room;  and  for  a  time  after  that,  neither  of  them  spoke.  Wint 
was  thinking  hard,  and  in  the  end  he  asked  quietly :  "  Know  any 
way  I  can  earn  a  living  till  I'm  inaugurated?  " 

Amos  swung  his  head  around,  tilting  it  on  one  side,  and 
squinting  thoughtfully  at  Wint;  and  presently  he  smiled  ap 
provingly.  "  Guess  you  might,"  he  said.  "  Might  do  some  o' 
my  letter  writing.  You'd  learn  things,  that  way.  I  never  had 
no  secretary.  Pm  allowed  one.  You  c'n  have  the  job,  long's 
I'm  here." 

Next  morning  Wint  mailed  a  money  order  to  his  father  with 
out  explanation,  and  thereafter  he  drew  a  salary  from  Amos 
until  his  salary  as  Mayor  began. 

From  his  work  for  Amos,  Wint  learned  many  things.  He 
got  for  the  first  time  an  insight  into  the  scope  of  the  Congress 
man's  work,  into  the  extent  of  his  interests  and  influence.  One 
of  the  things  he  learned  was  a  sincere  respect  for  Caretall's 
ability,  and  he  also  came  to  admire  the  shrewdness  of  Gergue. 
Wint  did  a  deal  of  thinking  in  those  weeks. 

Living,  as  he  did,  as  one  of  Caretall's  family,  he  was  thrown 
constantly  with  Agnes;  and  the  girl  put  herself  out  to  please 
him.  She  and  old  Maria  Hale  worked  together  in  this.  The 
girl  discovered  Wint's  favorite  dishes,  and  Maria  produced  them 


INTERLUDE  115 

and  brought  them  to  a  perfection  that  Wint  had  never  known. 
It  was  Agnes'  task  to  take  care  of  the  dusting  and  housework; 
and  she  began,  after  a  time,  to  put  an  occasional  cluster  of 
flowers  from  the  greenhouses  next  door  in  his  room.  When 
they  talked  together,  she  deferred  to  him  with  a  pretty  fashion 
of  tilting  her  head  and  widening  her  serious  eyes  that  he  found 
exceedingly  attractive.  It  stimulated  his  self-respect;  and  at 
the  same  time  it  gave  him  a  new  respect  for  her.  Since  she 
so  obviously  approved  of  him,  there  must  be  more  to  her  than 
he  had  supposed.  She  was,  he  decided,  a  person  of  judgment. 
He  had  always  thought  her  a  giddy  little  thing  with  a  brisk, 
gay  tongue  and  laughing  eyes.  He  found  in  her  an  unexpected 
capacity  for  silence  and  for  attention.  She  encouraged  him  to 
talk  about  himself,  about  his  plans;  she  sympathized  with  him, 
and  advised  him  when  he  asked  her  advice.  They  became 
surprisingly  good  friends. 

She  suggested,  one  evening,  that  they  telephone  Jack  Routt 
to-  bring  Joan  for  a  game  of  cards.  Wint  shook  his  head; 
and  the  girl,  without  asking  questions,  made  her  curiosity  so 
obvious  that  Wint  told  her  that  Joan  had  cast  him  off.  He 
leaned  forward,  elbows  on  knees  and  fingers  intertwined,  staring 
idly  into  the  fire,  while  he  told  her;  and  the  girl  leaned  back 
in  her  chair  and  listened  and  studied  him,  and  when  he  fin 
ished  she  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his  arm. 

"  It's  a  shame,  Wint,"  she  said. 

Wint  shook  his  head.     "Oh  —  she  was  right!  " 

"She  wasn't  right.  She  ought  to  have  stuck  by  you,  and 
helped  you  fight  it  out." 

Wint  thought  so  too,  and  his  respect  for  Agnes  rose.  But 
he  said  insistently :  "  No,  she  was  right." 

Agnes  patted  his  arm,  and  then  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
again.  "  It's  fine  of  you  to  think  so,"  she  said. 

One  night  Wint  asked  her  to  go  uptown  with  him  to  the 
moving-picture  theater.  She  was  delighted,  and  she  was  gay 
as  a  cricket  on  the  way.  At  the  entrance  of  the  theater,  they 
came  face  to  face  with  Jack  Routt  and  Joan. 

Wint  felt  his  cheeks  burn.  Agnes  greeted  the  other  two  with 
a  burst  of  rapid  chatter  that  covered  the  awkward  moment. 


116  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Routt  studied  Wint,  and  Joan  nodded  to  him  without  speaking. 
Then  Routt  and  Joan  went  inside,  and  Wint  and  Agnes  sat 
three  rows  behind  them. 

While  the  picture  was  flashing  on  the  screen,  Wint  watched 
the  heads  of  the  two.  He  could  not  help  it;  and  when  their 
heads,  silhouetted  against  the  light,  leaned  toward  one  another 
for  a  whispered  word,  he  felt  something  boil  within  him.  His 
reaction  was  to  bend  more  attentively  toward  Agnes;  and  the 
gay  little  girl  beside  him  responded  to  this  new  mood  so  that 
when  the  film  was  done  and  they  filed  out,  she  and  Wint  were 
the  most  obviously  happy  young  couple  in  the  house.  They 
had  ice  cream  together  at  the  bakery  next  door,  and  walked 
home  in  comfortable  comradeship,  the  girl's  hand  on  his  arm. 

That  night,  Wint's  sleep  was  disturbed  and  wretched;  and  next 
day  when  he  met  Routt  at  the  Post  Office,  he  stiffened  with 
resentment.  But  Routt  caught  his  arm  and  drew  him  to  one 
side.  "  See  here,  Wint,"  he  said,  "  Joan  tells  me  you  and  she 
have  quarreled." 

Wint  nodded. 

"  You  ought  to  go  to  her  and  make  it  up,  Wint.  I  don't  know 
what  it's  about,  but  you  ought  to  make  it  up  with  her." 

"  I've  nothing  to  make  up." 

"  She's  a  dandy  girl." 

"  I've  nothing  against  her." 

"  It  makes  her  sore  to  have  you  chase  around  with  Agnes." 

"  There's  no  reason  why  it  should,"  Wint  said  stiffly.  "  She 
has  no  hold  on  me." 

Routt  hesitated.  "  Well,  Wint,"  he  said  uneasily,  "  if  that's 
so,  you've  no  claim  on  her." 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  Then  you  don't  mind  my  —  showing  her  some  attention  ? 
I  don't  want  anything  to  come  between  us,  Wint." 

Wint  laughed.  "  Go  as  far  as  you  like,  Jack,"  he  said 
cheerfully.  "You  can't  hurt  my  feelings." 

Routt  gripped  his  hand.  "That's  great,  Wint."  He  looked 
about  them,  and  then  added  slowly:  "I  think  she  likes  me, 
Wint.  I'm  —  in  to  win." 

"  Go  as  far  as  you  like,"  Wint  repeated. 


INTERLUDE  117 

They  separated,  and  Wint  went  back  to  the  house  and  re 
mained  in  his  room  half  the  morning.  He  was  tormented  by 
angry  pride  and  irresolution;  he  could  not  decide  what  to 
do.  A  recklessness  took  possession  of  him;  he  repented  of 
his  determination  to  stick,  and  fight  out  this  fight  to  the  end. 
He  sought  for  some  way  out  .  .  . 

Muldoon  had  become  a  part  of  the  Caretall  household 
with  Wint;  and  he  looked  out  of  the  window  now  and  saw 
the  dog  starting  toward  town  at  Agnes'  heels.  He  made  a  move 
to  whistle  Muldoon  back,  then  thought  better  of  it.  Joan 
might  see  Muldoon  with  Agnes;  he  hoped  she  would,  hoped  it 
would  make  her  miserable  .  .  .  He  wanted  Joan  to  be  unhappy. 

As  the  time  for  his  inauguration  as  Mayor  approached,  Wint 
became  more  and  more  uneasy.  He  felt  as  though  he  were 
about  to  submit  to  bonds  that  would  pin  him  fast;  he  felt 
as  though  he  were  on  the  steps  of  a  prison.  A  fierce  revolt 
began  to  brood  in  him  and  grow  and  boil. 

He  broke  out  once,  in  a  talk  with  Caretall.  He  would  throw 
the  whole  thing  over,  leave  town,  go  away,  never  to  return. 

Amos  agreed  with  this  project  perfectly.  He  agreed  that 
Wint  was  not  the  man  for  the  job,  that  it  would  mean  hard 
work,  and  difficulties;  he  thought  Wint  was  wise  not  to  attempt 
it.  He  offered  to  straighten  out  any  tangle  and  free  Wint  from 
the  obligations  of  the  office ;  and  he  offered  to  lend  Wint  money 
that  Wint  might  make  a  start  elsewhere. 

His  great  complaisance  angered  Wint,  so  that  he  stubbornly 
declared  that  he  would  stick  if  every  man  in  town  urged  him 
to  go. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  before  he  was  to  take  office,  he  met 
Jack  Routt  uptown,  and  Jack  took  his  arm.  They  walked 
together  toward  Jack's  office,  and  went  in  and  sat  down. 

It  was  evident  that  Routt  had  something  on  his  mind.  He 
talked  of  the  weather,  of  Agnes,  of  Joan;  and  Wint,  watching 
him,  saw  that  Routt  was  holding  something  back,  and  at  last 
asked  impatiently:  "Jack,  what's  on  your  mind?" 

Routt  looked  surprised.     "  Why  —  nothing." 

"  Yes,  there  is."  Wint  laughed  at  him.  "  What's  the  mat 
ter?  Open  up." 


118  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Routt  hesitated;  but  at  last  he  said  frankly:  "Well,  Wint, 
I  was  wondering.  .  .  ." 

"About  what?" 

"  Have  you  been  hitting  the  booze  lately  ?  "  Routt  asked. 

Wint  shook  his  head;  his  eyes  hardened  a  little. 

Routt  seemed  pleased.  He  thrust  out  his  hand.  "  I'm  darned 
glad,  Wint,"  he  said.  "  Congratulations !  You  ought  to  leave 
it  alone.  You're  right." 

Wint  flushed  angrily.  "  I  haven't  sworn  off,"  he  said  shortly. 
"It  —  just  happens — "  He  stared  at  Routt.  "You  didn't 
bring  me  up  here  to  ask  that?  " 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"Why?" 

Routt  shifted  in  his  chair  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  "  Never 
mind,"  he  said.  "  Forget  it,  Wint." 

Wint  laughed  unpleasantly.  "  Come  on.  I'm  a  grown  man. 
What's  eating  you?  " 

Routt  lifted  his  shoulders.  "Well  —  fact  is,  some  of  the 
boys  wanted  to  get  up  a  little  supper  to-night,  at  the  lodge 
rooms,  in  honor  of  your  —  inaugural.  I  told  them  nothing 
doing.  Said  you  were  off  the  stuff.  They  didn't  believe  it; 
and  I  promised  to  ask  you." 

Wint  looked  at  him  angrily.  "You're  not  my  wet  nurse, 
Jack.  That  supper  idea  tickles  me.  It's  on." 

Routt  protested.  "  No,  Wint.  I  won't  stand  for  it.  You've 
stayed  off  the  stuff  this  long;  and  it's  the  best  thing  for  you. 
You  can't  stop  when  you  once  start.  So  —  leave  it  alone." 

Wint  got  up  hotly.  "  Go  to  the  devil!  "  he  snapped.  "  Don't 
be  an  old  woman.  Who's  running  the  thing?  " 

"  Dick  Hoover.     But  you  leave  it  alone.  .  .  ." 

"  Rats!     Tell  Dick  I'll  be  there.     Or  I'll  tell  him  myself." 

Routt  lifted  his  hands  in  surrender.  "  Oh  —  I'll  tell  him," 
he  agreed.  "  But  you're  a  darned  fool,  Wint." 

"  Rats!  "  Wint  repeated;  and  he  grinned.  He  was  unaccount 
ably  elated,  as  though  he  had  shaken  off  restraining  bonds. 
"  Rats!  "  And  he  went  out  to  the  street  with  his  head  high. 

Routt  picked  up  the  telephone  and  called  Hoover.  He  was 
smiling. 


CHAPTER  V 

ALLIANCE 

WINTHROP  CHASE,  SENIOR,  was  thrown  by  his  son's 
election  to  the  office  he  had  counted  as  his  own 
into  a  passion  in  which  rage  and  humiliation  were 
equally  commingled. 

He  was  a  man  fed  fat  with  vanity.  He  took  himself  very 
seriously.  He  lived  a  decent  and  respectable  life  in  the  eyes  of 
all  men,  and  he  felt  himself  justly  entitled  to  the  respect  of 
all  men.  He  had,  before  this,  seen  the  smiles  of  those  few  who 
dared  mock  him;  but  he  had  believed  them  a  small  minority. 
When  three  quarters  of  the  town  united  in  the  jest  at  his 
expense,  he  was  outraged  inexpressibly.  And  when  the  city 
papers  took  up  the  story  and  for  a  time  the  whole  state 
tittered  over  it,  Chase  trembled  and  shuddered  with  his  own 
agony. 

His  first  reaction  had  been  anger  at  his  son;  and  when  he 
heard  Wint  had  been  found,  sodden  and  stupid,  in  that  room 
at  the  Weaver  House,  he  cast  the  boy  out  of  his  life,  hiding 
his  own  honest  grief  and  sorrow  under  a  mantle  of  resentment 
and  accusation.  For  he  loved  Wint,  and  had  wished  to  be 
proud  of  him. 

In  the  beginning,  his  chief  resentment  centered  on  Wint, 
and  he  had  toward  Amos  Caretall  only  that  anger  which 
one  feels  toward  a  treacherously  victorious  opponent.  But 
about  the  time  Wint  sent  him  that  money  order,  and  stood  on 
his  own  feet  before  the  world,  Chase's  heart  softened  in  spite 
of  himself.  He  sought  to  make  excuses  for  his  son,  and  in 
this  effort  he  found  Caretall  a  convenient  scapegoat.  By 
degrees  he  convinced  himself  that  Caretall  had  led  Wint 
astray,  playing  on  the  boy's  vanity  and  pride;  and  after  that 
came  the  half  conviction  that  when  Wint  denied  all  knowledge 

119 


120  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

of  the  coup,  the  boy  had  told  the  truth.  Then  all  Chase's  anger 
centered  on  Amos;  and  as  the  first  sting  of  his  disgrace  passed 
by,  he  began  to  look  about  him  and  seek  to  rebuild  the  shattered 
structure  of  his  plans. 

He  had  encountered  Amos  more  than  once  upon  the  street 
since  the  election,  though  neither  had  carried  their  greetings 
further  than  a  nod  or  word.  But  there  came  a  day  when  Chase 
met  the  Congressman  face  to  face  in  the  Post  Office  at  a  moment 
when  there  were  no  others  there;  and  when  Chase  nodded,  Care- 
tall  stopped  and  tilted  his  head  on  one  side  and  squinted  in  a 
friendly  way  at  Chase. 

"  No  hard  feelings,  is  there,  Senior?  "  he  asked. 

Chase  looked  at  him,  started  to  speak,  flushed,  checked  him 
self;  and  at  last  said  huskily:  "Congressman,  I  want  to  talk 
with  you." 

Caretall  nodded.     "  That's  fair." 

"Where  can  we  talk?" 

Amos  scratched  his  head.  "  Tell  you,"  he  suggested.  "  I'll 
go  along  up  to  Pete  Gergue's  office.  You  go  down  t'  your  place, 
'nd  then  come  in  the  back  way.  Guess  we  don't  want  it  known 
we're  gettin'  t'gether." 

"Very  well,"  Chase  said  stiffly.  "I'll  be  there  in  half  an 
hour." 

When  he  climbed  the  stairs,  Amos  had  sent  Gergue  away 
and  was  sitting  at  the  oilcloth-covered  table,  slowly  whittling 
a  charge  for  his  pipe.  He  got  up  bulkily  at  Chase's  entrance, 
and  motioned  the  other  man  to  a  chair  across  the  table  from 
his  own.  Chase  sat  down  and  Amos,  lighting  his  pipe  between 
his  sentences,  said  slowly:  "Chase  ..."  a  scratch  of  the 
match.  "You  don't  want  to  hold  this  against  me."  A  suc 
cession  of  deep  puffs.  "  It's  politics.  All  in  th'  game."  A 
puff.  "You  was  getting  too  strong  for  me.  I  had  t'  lick 
you."  Puff,  puff,  puff! 

Chase  struck  his  fist  with  quiet  vehemence  on  the  table. 
"  It  was  a  dirty  trick,  Amos." 

Amos  shook  his  head,  vastly  pained.  "  Now,  Senior,"  he 
protested,  "  don't  go  talking  that  way.  'Twas  all  in  th'  game. 
All  in  the  game." 


ALLIANCE  121 

"  It  was  a  dirty  trick,"  Chase  insisted.  "  You  played  on 
my  good  feelings;  you  pretended  to  agree  to  an  alliance  with 
me;  you  got  me  off  my  guard — " 

Amos  held  up  a  heavy  hand.  "  Wait  a  minute,"  he  protested. 
"Wait  a  minute,  Senior.  Let  me  get  this  here  straight.  You 
come  to  me  with  a  prop'sition.  Wanted  to  get  together.  Said 
you  had  me  licked.  I  told  you  if  you  was  elected  Mayor, 
we'd  hitch  up.  Ain't  that  right  now,  Senior?  " 

Chase  moved  angrily.  "Strictly  true,"  he  confessed. 
"  Strictly  true.  That's  why  I  call  it  tricky.  You  came  to 
my  own  meeting  and  said  you  were  going  to  vote  for  me." 

"  Guess  I  said  I  was  going  to  vote  for  a  Chase,  didn't  I  ? 
Guess  I  did.  And  that's  the  way  I  voted." 

"  The  town  thought  you  meant  me." 

"  Not  long,  they  didn't.  Word  went  around  what  I  meant, 
all  in  good  time." 

Chase  got  to  his  feet,  his  head  back,  his  face  flushed.  He 
leaned  down  to  face  Amos,  and  he  slapped  his  right  fist  into 
his  left  palm.  "  I  tell  you  it  was  a  trick,"  he  insisted.  "  You 
know  it.  It  was  unworthy.  And  I  give  you  due  warning, 
Caretall  —  I'm  out  for  your  scalp  now.  I  propose  to  get  it. 
Take  your  measures  accordingly." 

Amos  puffed  hard  at  his  pipe.  He,  too,  rose;  he  tilted  his 
head  thoughtfully  on  one  side  and  squinted  at  Chase.  "  I  don't 
like  t'  hear  you  talk  that  way,  Senior,"  he  said  slowly.  "  You 
come  to  me  and  talked  to  me  till  you  rightly  showed  me  we 
ought  to  get  together.  I'm  ready  —  even  if  you  did  get  — " 

Chase  flung  up  his  hand.  "  Stop !  "  he  cried.  The  self- 
control  which  he  had  imposed  upon  himself  was  gone.  "  Stop ! 
Man,  man!  D'you  think  I'm  one  to  lick  the  hand  that  stabs 
me?  You  lie  to  me,  trick  me,  make  a  fool  of  me  and  a  joke 
of  me  before  the  state;  and  to  cap  it  all  you  steal  my  own 
son  out  of  my  house  — " 

"  Heard  you  was  the  one  to  throw  him  out,"  Amos  interjected, 
but  Chase  went  hotly  on: 

"  You  steal  my  own  son,  take  him  into  your  own  home, 
turn  him  against  me,  persuade  him  to  help  destroy  me.  .  .  ." 
His  voice  broke  with  his  own  rage  and  grief.  "  I  tell  you, 


122  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Amos,"  he  said  again,  leaning  steadily  forward,  "  I'm  going 
to  get  you.  Fair  warning.  Take  your  measures  accordingly." 

Amos  looked  out  of  the  window;  he  puffed  at  his  pipe;  and 
at  last  he  faced  the  other  man  again,  and  smiled.  "  Well, 
Senior,"  he  said  slowly,  "  if  the  land  lies  so  —  thanks  for 
the  word.  As  for  them  measures  —  I'll  take  them  like  you 
say." 

For  a  moment  longer,  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  held  each 
other.  Then  Chase  turned  stiffly  on  his  heel,  and  stalked  to 
the  door  and  went  out. 

As  he  disappeared,  Amos  called:  "  G'd  day!"  But  Chase 
made  no  answer,  and  Amos,  left  alone,  grinned  slowly  to  him 
self  and  shook  his  head. 

After  that  interview  with  Amos,  Chase  began  to  emerge  from 
the  turmoil  of  anger  and  shame  in  which  he  had  been  fighting 
since  the  election.  His  head  cleared  and  his  brain  cooled, 
and  he  began  to  plan,  with  a  certain  newly  acquired  shrewdness, 
his  next  steps  against  Caretall.  In  many  matters,  heretofore, 
the  elder  Chase  had  been  as  simple  as  a  boy.  Now  he  was  be 
coming  crafty.  In  the  past  he  had  honestly  believed  that  the 
life  of  self-conscious  rectitude  which  he  had  led  was  of  a  sort 
to  inspire  respect  and  affection.  Now  he  knew  that  he  was 
wrong,  knew  that  he  must  always  have  been  disliked  or  despised 
by  half  the  town.  He  had  always  been  benignly  courteous; 
and  this  courtesy,  which  was  more. than  half  condescension, 
had  made  more  enemies  than  friends.  He  had  played  a  straight 
forward  game;  and  he  had  lost. 

Like  other  men  before  him,  in  the  determination  to  change 
his  tactics,  he  went  too  far.  He  threw  himself  into  the  fight 
to  injure  Caretall  with  an  utter  disregard  for  the  conventions 
he  had  once  observed;  he  sought  allies  where  he  might  find 
them;  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  tried  to  put  himself 
in  another  man's  place  and  guess  what  the  other  man  would  do. 

The  man  into  whose  place  he  sought  to  put  himself  was  Amos 
Caretall ;  and  the  result  of  his  considerations  of  Amos's  possible 
future  plans  threw  Chase  into  the  arms  of  his  ancient  enemy, 
into  the  shrunken  arms  of  V.  R.  Kite. 

The  feud  between  Kite  and  Chase  had  never  been  a  concrete 


ALLIANCE  123 

thing.  It  was  based  upon  a  thousand  minor  incidents,  none 
of  them  important  in  itself.  Kite,  as  the  leader  of  the  "  wet " 
forces  in  the  town,  and  as  the  proprietor  of  half  the  liquor- 
peddling  establishments,  was  a  man  very  quick  to  resent  "  dry  " 
activities.  Chase  had  always  been  actively  "  dry."  And  Kite, 
curiously  enough  for  one  of  his  vocation,  was  a  very  thin- 
skinned  man.  He  found  offenses  in  words  that  were  meant  for 
kindness;  he  found  a  sneer  in  an  honest  smile. 

It  was  a  part  of  the  manner  of  the  elder  Chase  to  smile  and 
nod  benevolently  upon  those  whom  he  encountered.  This  was 
automatic  with  him;  and  he  smiled  at  Kite  with  the  rest.  Kite, 
a  man  of  fierce  and  violent  temperament,  knew  that  Chase 
had  no  kindly  feeling  toward  him;  and  so  he  saw  in  these  smiles 
only  sneers.  He  had  complained  to  Amos  Caretall:  "He's 
always  grinning  at  me,"  when  Amos  asked  why  he  hated  Chase ; 
and  this  was  an  old  grievance  with  the  liquor  man. 

Kite  had  been  one  of  those  who  rejoiced  most  highly  in 
Chase's  humiliation;  and  for  a  week  or  two  after  the  election,  he 
went  out  of  his  way  to  meet  Chase  upon  the  street.  On  such 
occasions,  he  paid  back  with  interest  those  grins  he  had  re 
sented  ;  he  spoke  to  Chase  with  exaggerated  courtesy  and  extreme 
solicitude.  He  inquired  after  the  other's  health  «nd  spirits;  he 
sympathized  with  Chase  in  his  defeat. 

These  sports  palled  upon  him  only  when  he  perceived  the 
growing  change  in  Chase.  For  Wint's  father  was  in  many 
ways  at  this  time  like  a  child  that  has  been  punished  for  a 
fault  it  does  not  understand.  The  elder  Chase  was  groping 
for  friendliness;  he  sought  it  wherever  it  could  be  found;  and 
he  took  some  of  Kite's  satiric  inquiries  in  good  faith  and  re 
sponded  to  them  with  such  honest  confidence  that  Kite  was 
touched  and  faintly  uneasy. 

A  few  days  after  Chase's  talk  with  Amos,  he  sought  out  Kite 
in  the  little  Bazaar  which  the  latter  conducted.  It  was  an 
institution  like  a  five  and  ten  cent  store,  and  did  a  flourishing 
business.  Next  door  to  it  was  a  restaurant,  also  owned  by 
Kite,  and  reached  by  a  communicating  passage.  In  a  room 
behind  this  restaurant,  knowing  ones  might  be  served  with 
anything  in  reason.  But  Kite  went  there  only  for  his  meals, 


124  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

and  most  of  the  hours  of  business  found  him  at  his  desk  in  the 
rear  of  the  Bazaar. 

Chase  frankly  sought  him  there.  He  drew  a  chair  up  to 
face  the  wrinkled  little  man;  and  Kite  was  surprised,  and 
cocked  his  head  on  his  thin  neck  and  tugged  at  his  drooping 
side  whiskers  until  he  looked  more  like  a  doubtful  turkey 
than  ever.  "  Howdo,  Chase?  "  he  said. 

Chase  nodded.  "  Kite,"  he  began  frankly,  "  I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

Kite  tried  to  grin  derisively;  he  tried  to  reawaken  the  old 
enmity  in  his  breast.  But  there  was  something  appealing 
about  Chase,  and  so  he  said  nothing,  only  waited. 

"Kite,"  said  Chase,  "Amos  Caretall  played  a  good  trick  on 
me." 

Kite  looked  startled ;  then  he  grinned.  "  Yes,  Chase,  he  did 
that,"  he  said. 

"  You  helped  him." 

Kite  frankly  admitted  it. 

"  You  helped  him,"  said  Chase,  "  because  you  thought  with 
Wint  in  as  Mayor,  the  town  would  stay  as  wet  as  you  want  it." 

Kite  hesitated,  then  he  nodded.  "  Yes,"  he  agreed.  "  Yes, 
that's  so,  Chase.  What  about  it?  " 

Chase  leaned  back.  "  Amos  made  a  fool  of  you,"  he  said. 
"  He's  going  to  turn  this  town  dry,  with  the  man  you  helped 
elect." 

Kite  flushed;  he  leaned  toward  Chase  with  narrowed  eyes 
peering  out  from  an  ambush  of  wrinkles;  and  then  suddenly 
he  threw  back  his  head  with  his  long,  turkey  neck  rising 
raw  and  red  from  his  collar,  and  he  laughed  cacklingly,  so 
that  customers  in  the  front  of  his  store  looked  that  way  to 
share  the  joke.  Chase  frowned  angrily.  "  Well?  "  he  snapped, 
"  what's  funny  about  that?  " 

Kite  dropped  a  dry  old  hand  on  Chase's  arm.  "  Oh,  Chase," 
he  choked  through  his  mirth,  "the  notion  of  Wint  making 
this  town  dry.  .  .  ." 

Chase  flushed.  He  started  to  speak.  Kite  interrupted :  "  Now 
don't  get  mad.  Course,  he's  your  son,  but  he  does  like  his  drop 
now  and  then,  Chase." 


ALLIANCE  125 

"  I  tell  you,  Amos  is  planning  to  do  it." 

There  was  something  so  deadly  sure  in  Chase's  tone  that 
Kite  sobered  and  looked  toward  him.  "  Say,  what  makes 
you  say  that?  "  he  demanded.  "  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  Amos  has  sense.  He  sees  this  question  is  the  big  one  in 
this  state.  He's  out  for  Congress  again.  He's  not  going  to 
have  it  thrown  at  him  that  his  man  let  this  town  soak  itself 
illegally." 

For  the  first  time,  Kite  began  to  look  worried.  "  Amos 
wouldn't  do  that.  He  told  me — " 

"  Told  you?  He  told  me  many  things,  too.  But  none  of 
them  were  true." 

Kite,  suddenly,  burst  into  flame  like  an  oily  rag.  He 
threw  up  a  clenched  fist.  "  By  God,  Chase,  he  don't  dare 
try  it!  " 

"  Dare?     He'll  dare  anything." 

Kite  stammered  with  the  heat  of  his  own  anger.  "  He  don't 
dare!  "  he  insisted.  "Why,  Chase  — if  he  tries  that  — I'll  — 
I'll  — "  With  no  sense  that  his  words  had  been  said  before, 
he  exclaimed:  "I  won't  live  in  the  town,  Chase.  I'll  get  out! 
I'll  shoot  him!  Or  myself." 

Chase  leaned  forward.  "'I  tell  you,  he's  aiming  to  do  it," 
he  said  steadily.  "So  sit  down." 

Kite  gripped  his  arm.  "  Chase,  you  got  to  drill  some  sense 
into  that  son  of  yours.  You  got  to  tell  him  — " 

"  He's  not  my  son  now ;  he's  Amos's.  Living  with  Amos, 
doing  what  Amos  says.  Don't  forget  that." 

There  was  a  bitterness  in  Chase's  voice  which  silenced  Kite 
for  a  moment.  Then  the  little  man  touched  Chase  on  the  arm. 
"  See  here,"  he  said  softly,  "  you  don't  like  Amos  any  better 'n 
I  do." 

Chase  smiled  mirthlessly.  "  I'm  out  for  his  hide,"  he  de 
clared. 

Kite  nodded,  chuckling  grimly.  "  He  thinks  he's  a  big 
man,"  he  said.  "  He  thinks  he  can  run  over  us,  play  with 
us,  use  us  and  then  give  us  the  brad.  But  I  tell  you  right  now, 
Chase  .  .  ."  He  lifted  his  open  hand  as  one  who  takes  an 
oath.  "  I  tell  you  right  now,  Chase,  if  he  tries  that  little  trick 


126  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

—  you  and  me'll  get  together,  and  we'll  hang  his  old  hide 
in  the  sun  to  dry." 

"He'll  try  it,"  said  Chase  steadily. 

Kite  stuck  out  his  hand.     "  Then  we'll  skin  him." 

"  That's  a  bargain,"  Chase  declared,  and  gripped  the  other's 
dry  and  skinny  fingers. 

It  was  in  this  fashion  that  these  two  enemies  joined  hands 
against  the  common  foe. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   WHISTLE   BLOWS 

THE  festivities  in  Wint's  honor  on  the  night  before  his 
inaugural  were  a  great  success,  from  every  point  of 
view. 

There  was  nothing  formal  about  them.  They  occurred  in 
an  upper  room  in  one  of  the  newer  business  blocks  on  Main 
Street.  Only  half  a  dozen  young  fellows  attended  them;  but 
these  were  all  chosen  spirits,  and  congenial. 

At  half  past  nine,  they  were  all  pleasantly  illuminated  by 
their  libations  and  the  general  good  cheer  of  the  occasion.  At 
eleven,  two  of  them  were  asleep  quite  peacefully  in  each  other's 
arms  upon  a  couch  at  one  side  of  the  room.  These  two  snored 
as  they  slept.  The  others  were  playing  cards,  and  the  refresh 
ments  which  had  been  provided  were  in  easy  reach.  Wint  and 
Jack  Routt  were  among  those  playing  cards.  Routt  never 
passed  a  certain  stage  of  intoxication,  no  matter  how  much  he 
drank.  He  reached  this  stage  with  the  first  swallow. 

With  Wint,  it  was  otherwise.  In  such  matters,  he  pro 
gressed  steadily  toward  a  dismal  end.  As  eleven  o'clock 
struck,  he  had  just  passed  the  quarrelsome  stage  and  was 
beginning  to  pity  himself.  He  opened  a  hand  with  three 
queens,  but  when  Routt  raised  his  bet,  Wint  threw  down  his 
cards  and  put  his  head  on  his  arms  and  wept  because  he 
could  not  win.  Then  he  took  another  drink. 

After  a  little,  he  cried  himself  to  sleep. 

Toward  one  o'clock,  Routt  and  Hoover  took  Wint  home  to 
Amos  Caretall's.  The  streets,  at  that  hour  of  the  night,  were 
utterly  deserted.  There  was  a  moon,  and  the  street  lamps 
were  unlighted  as  an  economical  consequence  of  this  heavenly 
illumination.  Wint  was  between  Routt  and  Hoover.  At  times 

127 


128  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

he  took  a  sodden  step  or  two;  at  other  times  he  dragged  to 
his  knees  upon  the  ground,  wagging  his  head  from  side  to 
side  and  singing  huskily. 

Hoover  was  almost  as  badly  off  as  Wint;  and  now  and  then 
he  joined  in  this  song.  Jack  Routt  was  cold  sober,  and  coldly 
exultant.  His  eyes  shone  in  the  moonlight;  and  he  handled 
Wint  with  rough  tenderness. 

When  they  were  about  half  a  block  from  the  Caretall  home, 
Wint  became  very  sick;  and  Hoover  sat  down  in  the  middle 
of  the  sidewalk  and  giggled  at  him  while  Routt,  leaning 
against  a  tree  above  the  sprawling  body  of  his  friend,  waited 
until  the  paroxysms  were  past  and  then  caught  Wint's  shoulders 
again  and  dragged  him  to  his  feet. 

Wint  had  thrown  off  some  of  the  poison;  he  was  able  now 
to  help  himself  a  little  more  than  before;  and  they  got  him 
to  their  destination.  There  Routt  propped  him  against  a  tree 
before  the  house  and  shook  him  and  tried  to  impress  upon 
him  the  necessity  of  silence. 

"  Don't  you  sing,  now,  Wint,"  he  warned.  "  Brace  up. 
Have  some  sense.  Keep  quiet." 

Wint  pettishly  protested  that  he  liked  to  sing,  and  that  he 
was  a  good  singer;  and  he  tried  to  prove  it  on  the  spot,  but 
Routt  gagged  him  with  the  flat  of  his  hand  until  Wint  sur 
rendered. 

"  Cut  it  out,  Wint,"  he  insisted.  "  You've  got  to  be  quiet 
while  we  get  you  to  bed." 

Then  Routt  felt  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  some  one 
drawled :  "  You've  done  your  share,  Routt.  Go  along.  I'll 
tuck  him  in." 

He  turned  and  saw  Amos  Caretall.  Amos  was  in  a  bath  robe 
of  rough  toweling  over  his  nightshirt;  and  his  feet  were  in 
carpet  slippers.  Routt  was  tongue-tied  for  a  moment;  then 
he  found  his  voice.  "  I'm  mighty  sorry  about  this,  sir,"  he 
said.  "  I  tried  to  keep  him  from  drinking  too  much.  But  you 
can't  stop  him.  He's  such  a  darned  fool." 

Amos  grinned  at  him  in  a  way  that  somehow  frightened  Routt. 
"  He  sure  is  the  darndest  fool  I  ever  see,"  he  agreed.  "  But 
don't  you  mind,  Jack.  Boys  will  be  boys.  You  and  —  who 


THE  WHISTLE  BLOWS  129 

is  jt?  —  oh,  Hoover.  You  and  Hoover  run  along  home.  I'll 
tend  to  him." 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  help  get  him  in  the  house?  " 

"  I'll  get  him  in.     I've  handled  'em  before." 

Routt  hesitated;  but  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  obey,  and 
he  obeyed.  Congressman  Amos  Caretall,  in  carpet  slippers, 
nightshirt,  and  faded  bath  robe,  watched  them  go;  and  then 
he  turned  to  where  Wint  had  slouched  down  against  the  tree 
and  said  kindly: 

"Well,  Wint  — come  on  in." 

Wint  wagged  his  head  and  began  to  sing.  The  Congressman 
bent  over  him  and  slapped  him  expertly  upon  the  cheeks  with 
his  open  hands,  one  hand  and  then  the  other.  The  sting  and 
smart  of  the  blows  seemed  to  dispel  some  of  the  clouds  that 
fuddled  Wint,  and  he  grinned  sheepishly,  and  got  to  his  feet. 
Amos  put  his  arm  around  him.  "  Come  on,  Wint,"  he  said 
again. 

They  went  thus  slowly  up  the  walk  and  into  the  house. 
Amos  shut  the  front  door  behind  them,  and  led  Wint  to  the 
stairs  and  up  them. 

In  the  upper  hall,  one  electric  bulb  was  burning;  and  as 
they  came  into  its  light,  Agnes  came  out  of  her  room.  Her 
soft,  fair  hair  was  down  her  back;  her  eyes  were  dewy  with 
sleep;  and  a  flanling,  silken  garment  was  drawn  close  about 
her.  "What  is  it,  dad?"  she  asked;  and  then  saw  Wint 
lurching  along  on  her  father's  arm  with  nodding  head  and  dull 
and  drunken  eyes,  and  she  laughed  softly  and  stepped  toward 
him  and  shook  her  finger  in  his  face.  "Oh,  you  Wint! 
Naughty  boy!  "  she  chided. 

Her  father  said  sharply :  "  Get  into  your  room,  Agnes !  " 
The  girl  looked  at  him,  and  at  the  anger  in  his  eyes  she  turned 
a  little  pale  and  slipped  silently  away. 

Amos  took  Wint  to  his  room,  where  Wint  fell  helplessly 
across  his  bed  and  began  instantly  to  snore.  The  Congressman 
looked  down  at  him  for  an  instant  with  a  grim  sort  of  pity 
mingled  with  the  anger  in  his  eyes.  Then  he  bent  and  loosened 
Wint's  shoes  and  drew  them  off;  and  afterward  he  took  off 
the  boy's  collar,  and  unbuttoned  his  garments  at  the  throat, 


130  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

and  unbuckled  his  belt  so  that  his  sodden  body  should  nowhere 
be  constricted. 

"  I  guess  that'll  do,  Wint,"  he  said  slowly  then.  "  You're 
too  heavy  for  me  to  handle.  Besides,  Wint  —  you  ain't  right 
clean."  He  stood  for  a  moment  longer,  then  turned  toward  the 
door.  At  the  door  he  looked  back  once,  snapped  out  the  light, 
and  so  was  gone. 

Wint's  snores  were  unbroken. 

The  Caretall  home  stood  in  that  end  of  town  where  the 
largest  of  the  furnaces  is  located.  A  railroad  siding  passes 
this  furnace,  and  a  switching  engine  is  busy  here  twenty-four 
hours  of  the  day.  The  engine  occasionally  finds  occasion  to 
whistle;  and  the  furnace  itself  has  a  whistle  of  enormous  pro 
portions;  a  siren  whose  blast  carries  for  miles  across  the  hills. 
This  siren  blows  at  every  change  of  shift,  it  blows  at  casting 
time,  and  it  blows  at  the  whim  of  the  engineer  who  may  wish 
to  startle  some  casual  visitor  or  friend. 

Persons  who  have  lived  long  in  this  part  of  Hardiston  grow 
accustomed  to  this  great  whistle.  They  sleep  undisturbed  when 
it  rouses  the  night  echoes;  and  they  talk  undisturbed  when  it 
shatters  the  peace  of  the  day.  It  is  even  told  of  some  of  them 
that  when  the  furnace  went  out  of  blast  and  its  whistle  was 
stilled,  they  used  to  be  awakened  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
by  the  failure  of  the  siren  to  sound  at  the  accustomed  time. 

Wint's  own  home  was  in  the  other  end  of  town.  He  had 
not  lived  long  enough  near  the  furnace  to  accustom  himself 
to  its  noises;  and  they  disturbed  him.  They  penetrated  his 
stupefied  sleep  on  the  night  of  this  debauch.  The  steady  roar 
of  the  great  fires,  which  could  be  heard  three  or  four  miles 
on  a  still  night,  played  on  his  worn  nerves  and  tortured  them; 
the  sharp  toots  of  the  switching  engine  made  him  jump  and 
quiver  in  his  sleep  like  a  dreaming  child;  and  when  he  woke 
in  the  morning  to  find  Amos  shaking  him  by  the  shoulder,  he 
was  miserable  and  sick  and  his  head  throbbed  with  the  beat 
of  a  thousand  drums,  and  seemed  like  to  split  with  agony. 
He  wished,  weakly,  that  it  would  split  and  be  done. 

When   he   opened   his   bloodshot   eyes,   Amos    laughed    and 


THE  WHISTLE  BLOWS  131 

jerked  him  upright  and  shook  some  of  the  slumber  out  of 
him.  "  Come,  Wint,"  he  commanded  heartily.  "  I've  got  a 
cold  tub  all  ready.  Jump  in  it.  Got  to  get  in  shape,  y'know. 
Inaugurated  t'day." 

Wint  groaned  and  held  his  head  in  both  hands.  "  Hell  with 
it,"  he  scowled.  "  Inaugural.  Whole  damn  business.  I'm 
not  goin'  to  do  it.  Coin'  sleep.  Hell  with  it,  I  say." 

He  tried  to  drop  back  on  the  bed,  but  Amos  laughed  and 
caught  him  and  dragged  him  to  his  feet.  "  Come  out  of  it," 
he  enjoined.  "  You'll  be  all  right." 

Wint  shook  his  head  stubbornly;  then  cried  out  with  pain 
at  the  shaking.  The  fumes  of  the  liquor  were  gone  out  of 
him;  he  was  only  dreadfully  sleepy  and  dreadfully  sick.  He 
felt  as  though  he  were  pulled  and  tortured  by  pricking  wires 
that  tore  his  flesh,  and  his  eyelids  were  as  heavy  as  lead  and 
as  hot  as  coals  upon  his  bloodshot  eyes.  But  he  opened  them, 
and  said  heavily :  "  No,  Congressman  Caretall.  It's  off.  I 
won't  do  it.  I'm  through." 

It  was  as  Amos  groped  for  a  next  word  that  the  siren 
began  to  blow.  This  was  the  signal  for  the  morning's  casting. 
The  engineer  must  have  been  in  good  spirits  that  morning,  for 
he  gave  more  than  full  measure  on  the  blast.  The  whistle 
shrieked  and  roared  till  the  very  windows  rattled  and  shivered 
in  their  places;  and  Wint,  at  the  first  sound,  whipped  up  his 
hands  to  shield  his  agonized  ears,  and  dropped  on  the  bed  and 
held  his  head  and  groaned  until  his  groan  became  almost  a 
shriek  with  the  pain.  Then,  when  the  siren  died  into  silence, 
he  got  dully  to  his  feet,  and  glared  at  Amos,  who  said  huskily: 
"  I'd  like  t'  kill  man  that  did  that.  Like  to  dynamite  that 
whistle.  Anything  —  make  it  keep  quiet." 

Amos  suddenly  smiled;  then  he  chuckled.  "Well,  Wint," 
he  said  quickly,  "  there's  ways  to  make  it  keep  quiet." 

Wint  looked  at  him  with  torpid  interest.  "  I'll  bite,"  he  said. 
"Tell  me  one." 

Amos  waved  his  hands.  "  Why,  f'r  instance,  the  Mayor  has 
power  to  enforce  the  abatement  of  a  nuisance.  Make  them  shut 
off  that  whistle,  if  it's  a  nuisance.  Anything  like  that." 

Wint  swayed  on  his  feet,  and  steadied  himself  with  a  hand 


132  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

on  the  foot  of  the  bed.  "  Can  the  Mayor  do  a  thing  like  that  — 
on  the  square?  " 

"  Why,  sure,"  said  Amos. 

Wint  grinned;  a  cracked  and  painful  grin,  but  mirthful  too; 
and  he  took  a  step  forward.  "  Then  say,"  he  exclaimed. 
"Then  say!  There's  something  in  this  Mayor  job,  after 
all.  .  .  ." 

"Sure  there  is!  " 

Wint  gripped  Amos'  arm.  "  Lead  me  to  that  cold,  cold 
tub,"  he  enjoined. 

END   OF   BOOK   II 


BOOK  III 
INTO  HARNESS 


CHAPTER  I 

ON   HIS   OWN   FEET 

THE  inauguration  of  a  small-town  Mayor  is  no  great 
matter  for  excitement.  But  Hardiston  was  interested 
in  Wint,  and  wanted  to  have  a  look  at  him,  so  every 
body  came  to  see  him  step  into  his  new  responsibilities. 

The  Hardiston  council  chamber  was  on  the  second  floor  of 
the  fire  house.  This  was  a  three-story  building  of  red  brick, 
and  a  place  of  awe  and  wonder  for  the  small  boys  of  the 
town.  The  fire  engine  and  the  hose  cart  were  kept  on  the 
ground  floor,  in  front.  Behind  them  were  the  stalls  for  the 
four  sleek  horses;  behind  the  stalls  again,  a  number  of  iron- 
barred  stalls  for  human  beings.  Here  were  housed  the  minor 
criminals,  arrested  by  Marshal  Jim  Radabaugh  for  petty  pec 
ulations  or  disorders,  and  waiting  for  their  hearings  before  the 
Mayor.  These  little  cells  were  not  designed  to  house  prisoners 
for  any  length  of  time,  and  for  the  most  part  they  were  fur 
nished  simply  with  heaps  of  straw  pilfered  from  the  supply 
that  was  kept  for  the  fire  horses.  The  town  drunkard,  when 
the  marshal  got  him,  was  treated  as  well  as  the  fire  horses; 
and  this  is  more  than  may  be  said  in  larger  towns  than 
Hardiston. 

At  the  left-hand  side  of  the  building  there  was  an  entrance 
hall,  through  which  one  passed  to  reach  the  stairs  that  led  up 
to  the  council  chamber.  In  the  middle  of  this  square  hallway 
hung  a  rope,  with  a  knot  on  the  end.  This  rope  disappeared 
through  a  hole  in  the  ceiling.  If  you  pulled  it  in  the  proper 
fashion,  the  bell  in  the  steeple  began  a  chattering,  staccato 
beat  like  the  clanging  of  a  gong.  This  was  the  fire  bell; 
and  when  it  rang  the  fire  chief  came  from  his  feed  store  across 
the  street,  and  the  firemen  came  from  the  bakery,  and  the 
hardware  store,  and  the  blacksmith  shop  where  they  worked; 

135 


136  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

and  the  fat  fire  horses  —  they  doubled  in  the  street-cleaning 
department  —  came  on  the  gallop  from  their  abandoned  wagons 
in  the  streets.  Then  everybody  got  into  harness  of  one  kind 
or  another  and  went  to  the  fire. 

Everybody  in  town  wanted  to  ring  that  fire  bell.  Any  one 
who  discovered  a  fire  and  reached  the  fire  house  with  the 
news  was  privileged  to  do  it.  There  was  a  tradition  that  a 
boy  once  tried  to  ring  the  bell  and  was  jerked  clear  off  the 
floor  by  the  rebound  after  his  first  tug  at  the  rope.  This 
added  to  the  wonder  and  the  mystery  of  it.  The  boys  used 
to  hang  around  the  doorway,  watching  this  rope,  and  occasion 
ally  fingering  it  in  a  gingerly  way,  and  wishing  a  fire  would 
start  somewhere  so  that  they  might  see  the  bell  rung. 

It  was  through  this  hall  where  the  rope  hung  that  the  people 
of  Hardiston  crowded  to  see  Wint  inaugurated.  They  went 
up  the  worn,  wooden  stairs  into  the  council  chamber,  and 
they  packed  themselves  in  on  the  benches  in  the  rear  of  the 
room.  This  was  not  only  the  council  chamber;  it  was  the 
seat  of  the  Mayor's  court.  There  was  an  enclosure,  surrounded 
by  a  railing.  When  some  of  the  bigger,  or  perhaps  it  was 
only  the  braver,  men  of  the  town  came  in,  they  sat  inside  this 
railing,  tilting  their  chairs  back  against  it,  with  a  spittoon 
drawn  within  easy  range.  The  crowd  came  early;  and  they 
talked  in  cheerfully  loud  tones  while  they  waited.  One  by 
one  the  aldermen  drifted  in,  the  new  ones  and  the  old.  And 
Marshal  Jim  Radabaugh  was  there;  and  the  clerk  and  the 
other  officials  arrived  and  took  their  places  within  the  en 
closure.  They  were  carelessly  matter  of  fact,  as  though  the 
inauguration  of  a  new  Mayor  was  an  everyday  matter.  The 
boys,  perched  on  the  window  sills,  whistled,  and  giggled, 
and  then  subsided  into  frightened  silence  to  watch  with  staring 
eyes. 

Amos  Caretall  had  let  Wint  sleep  as  late  as  possible  this 
morning.  Wint  needed  the  sleep,  and  Congressman  Caretall 
made  it  his  business  to  study  the  needs  of  his  fellow  men. 
His  Congressional  creed,  which  he  summarized  upon  occasion, 
was  as  simple  as  that.  "  If  a  bill's  aimed  to  make  you  folks 
at  home  here  more  comfortable,  I'm  for  it,"  he  would  say. 


ON  HIS  OWN  FEET  137 

"If  it  ain't,  I'm  against  it;  and  that's  all  the  way  of  it  with 
me."  So  he  let  Wint  sleep  this  morning  until  the  last  minute, 
then  shook  him  into  wakefulness. 

Even  then,  Wint  might  have  thrown  the  whole  thing  over 
but  for  that  whistle.  He  was  sick  and  sore,  his  head  hurt, 
and  his  eyes  could  not  bear  even  the  dim  light  of  his  bedroom. 
He  told  Amos  he  would  not  go  through  with  it,  that  he  would 
not  be  inaugurated.  Then  the  whistle  blew,  and  when  Amos 
said  it  would  be  a  part  of  his  powers  as  Mayor  to  stop  that 
plagued  whistle  if  he  wanted  to,  the  idea  struck  Wint's  sense 
of  humor.  He  grinned,  and  decided  there  was  something  in 
being  Mayor,  after  all,  and  climbed  unsteadily  out  of  bed. 

After  the  tub  of  cold  water  which  Amos  had  waiting  for 
him,  he  felt  better.  After  old  Maria  Hale's  breakfast  —  fried 
eggs,  and  country-cured  ham,  and  three  cups  of  strong  coffee 
—  he  felt  better  still.  But  he  was  not  yet  himself.  Physically, 
he  was  acutely  comfortable,  blissfully  comfortable.  His  legs 
and  his  arms  felt  warm;  they  tingled.  His  head  did  not  hurt; 
it  was  merely  numb.  It  was  true  that  his  tongue  was  furry 
and  thick,  so  that  he  had  to  talk  very  carefully  when  he  talked 
at  all;  but  save  for  this  precision  of  speech,  there  was  no 
mark  on  him  of  the  night  before.  He  was  young  enough  to 
recover  quickly,  his  cheeks  were  red,  his  eyes  were  lazily 
clear. 

But  it  was  not  to  be  denied  that  his  head  was  numb.  He 
was  in  something  like  a  daze  when  he  went  out  with  Amos 
and  started  toward  the  fire-engine  house.  The  day  was  bright 
and  warm  for  the  season,  and  the  sun  was  cheerful.  Wint 
enjoyed  the  walk.  But  he  had  to  keep  his  eyes  shut  much 
of  the  time.  The  light  hurt  them.  When  he  heard  Amos 
speak  to  some  one  they  passed,  he  also  spoke.  When  Amos 
talked  to  him,  he  answered.  But  his  answers  were  idle  and 
unconsidered;  he  was  too  comfortable  to  think. 

They  went  up  some  stairs  after  a  while,  and  Wint  under 
stood  that  they  had  arrived.  He  heard  people  talking  all 
together,  and  then  one  at  a  time.  Men  said  things,  and  Amos 
nudged  him,  and  he  made  replies.  He  could  hear  what  others 
said  to  him.  They  mumbled  hurriedly,  as  though  over  some 


138  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENf 

too-familiar  formula.  There  was  nothing  particularly  im 
pressive,  or  dignified,  in  the  proceedings.  The  light  from 
the  windows  at  the  back  of  the  room  hurt  Wint's  eyes,  so  he 
still  kept  them  half  shut.  The  people  before  him  were  merely 
black  shadows,  silhouetted  against  this  glare.  He  could  not 
see  who  any  of  them  were. 

After  a  time,  some  one  —  it  sounded  like  a  small  boy  — 
yelled :  "  Speech !  "  And  others  took  up  the  cry,  and  Amos 
nudged  Wint.  So  Wint  stood  up  again  and  said  with  that 
careful  precision  which  the  condition  of  his  tongue  demanded: 

"  I've  nothing  to  say.  I'll  let  what  I  do,  do  the  talking  for 
me." 

That  seemed  to  be  satisfactory.  Every  one  cheered,  so  that 
the  noise  hurt  his  ears.  Then  he  sat  down.  A  moment  later, 
every  one  got  up,  and  he  got  up,  and  they  all  began  to  crowd 
around  him,  and  to  crowd  toward  the  door.  Somebody  came 
up  and  shook  hands  with  Wint,  and  he  recognized  the  voice 
of  V.  R.  Kite.  He  had  never  liked  Kite;  the  man  was  like  a 
foul  bird.  A  buzzard.  The  idea  pleased  Wint.  He  said  cheer 
fully: 

"  To  hell  with  you,  you  old  buzzard." 

He  heard  Amos  chuckle,  somewhere  near  him.  Every  one 
else  stood  very  still.  So  Wint  strode  past  Kite  to  the  stairs, 
and  Amos  followed  him,  and  Peter  Gergue  followed  Amos. 
They  went  back  home  to  Amos's  house.  Once,  on  the  way,  Wint 
asked : 

"That  all  there  is  to  it?" 

Amos  said:  "Land,  no,  that's  just  the  beginning." 

Wint  chuckled.  He  was  beginning  to  enjoy  himself.  But 
he  was  very  sleepy.  When  they  got  home,  he  went  to  bed 
and  slept  till  dinner  was  ready,  and  he  slept  all  the  afternoon, 
and  he  went  to  bed  for  the  night  as  soon  as  supper  was  done. 

Amos  had  been  thinking  he  ought  to  get  back  to  Washington. 
He  was  glad  Wint  went  off  to  bed,  because  there  were  two 
or  three  matters  he  wanted  to  attend  to.  One  of  these  matters 
had  to  do  with  Jack  Routt.  Amos  was  not  sure  of  his  ground 
in  that  direction,  but  he  had  his  suspicions.  He  sent  for  Peter 


ON  HIS  OWN  FEET  139 

Gergue  after  supper,  and  Gergue  came  quickly  at  the  summons. 
They  sat  down  before  the  coal  fire,  and  Peter  filled  his  pipe 
in  careful  imitation  of  Amos,  and  the  two  men  smoked  together 
in  silence  for  a  space,  while  Amos  considered  what  to  say. 

Peter  was  one  of  those  unfortunate  men  who  do  not  like 
silences.  This  put  him  at  a  disadvantage  before  Amos,  who 
could  be  silent  indefinitely.  It  was  Amos's  chief  superiority 
over  Peter,  and  it  gave  the  Congressman  his  mastery  over  the 
man.  This  night,  as  always,  it  was  Peter  who  spoke  first.  He 
puffed  at  his  pipe,  and  he  said: 

"  Well,  Amos,  you'll  be  gittin'  back  to  Washin'ton." 

Amos  turned  his  head,  tilted  it  on  one  side,  and  squinted  at 
Peter.  "  I  guess  so,"  he  agreed. 

"Thought  you'd  be  going,"  said  Peter.  "  Wint'll  miss 
you." 

"  Do  you  think  he'll  know  he  misses  me?  "  Amos  asked. 

"  If  he  did,"  said  Peter,  "  he  wouldn't  admit  it." 

The  Congressman  nodded.     "  Wint's  a  cur'ous  cuss,  Peter." 

"  Yeah." 

"  He's  a  nice  boy  —  give  him  a  chance." 

"  We-ell,  he's  got  his  chance." 

"  What's  he  going  to  do  with  it,  Peter?  " 

Gergue  rummaged  through  his  back  hair  thoughtfully. 
"  Guess  that  depends  on  what  he's  let  do  with  it.  Somebody 
come  along  and  tell  him  he  ought  to  make  a  good  Mayor,  and 
he'll  make  a  bad  one,  just  to  show  he  can't  be  bossed." 

"  That's  right,"  Amos  agreed.  He  considered,  grinned  to 
himself.  "You  know,  Pete,  if  we  could  get  Kite  to  sign  on 
as  Wint's  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  Wint'd  do  all  right." 

Gergue  considered,  and  he  chuckled.  "  Sure.  If  he  went 
contrary  to  what  Kite  said.  And  he  would.  Wint's  always 
on  the  contrary-minded  side  of  a  thing." 

"  Now  why  is  that?  "  Caretall  asked. 

"  That's  because  he's  who  he  is,  I  sh'd  say." 

Amos  puffed  deep  at  his  black  pipe.  "  Trouble  is,"  he 
commented,  "  Kite  wouldn't  take  the  job.  Not  after  what  Wint 
handed  him  to-day.  You  heard  that?  " 

Gergue   grinned   widely.     "Yeah.     The   old   buzzard.     Say, 


140  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

that  surely  does  hit  Kite.  The  way  he  holds  his  head.  I'd 
always  thought  of  a  turkey,  but  I  guess  a  buzzard  does  it  too. 
Like  he  was  always  looking  over  a  wall." 

"  What  I'd  like  to  see,"  said  Amos,  "  is  some  one  that  would 
guarantee  to  give  Wint  bad  advice." 

"  We-ell,"  Peter  told  him,  "  I  can  do  some  of  that." 

"Trouble  is,  there's  others  will  tell  him  to  do  the  right 
thing." 

"You  talk  like  James  T.  Hollow,"  said  Gergue.  "Always 
trying  to  do  what's  right." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Amos  casually,  "  whether  them  that  tell 
him  to  keep  straight  figure  he'll  do  what  they  say?  " 

Peter  understood  that  there  was  something  back  of  the 
question;  he  studied  Amos's  impassive  face.  Then  he  thought 
for  a  minute,  and  nodded  his  head. 

"  You  mean  Jack  Routt,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  the  Congressman  agreed. 

Peter  considered.  "I  don't  quite  know  about  Jack,"  he 
said.  "He  lets  on  to  be  Wint's  friend.  But  he  don't  help 
Wint  any.  Jack's  got  a  way  of  telling  Wint  to  do  a  thing 
that  works  the  opposite  every  darned  time." 

"  I've  a  notion,"  said  Caretall,  "  that  if  Routt  was  to  tell 
Wint  to  take  care  of  his  health,  say,  Wint'd  go  shoot  himself, 
just  to  be  different." 

"That's  right,"  Gergue  agreed;  and  the  two  men  sat  for  a 
time  without  speaking,  their  pipes  bubbling,  the  smoke  drifting 
upward  lazily. 

"  Question  is,"  said  Caretall  at  last,  "  what  are  we  going  to 
do  about  it?  "  Gergue  made  no  comment,  and  Amos  asked: 
"What  do  you  think,  Peter?" 

"  I  don't  see  through  Routt,"  said  Gergue.  "  I  don't  see 
what  he's  got  on  his  mind." 

"  Looks  to  me  that  he's  plain  ornery,"  Amos  suggested. 

"  I  guess  that's  right." 

"  But  that  don't  get  us  anywheres.  I'd  like  to  have  him  let 
Wint  alone." 

"  He'd  ought  to." 

"  How  can  we  make  him  let  Wint  alone?  "  Amos  asked. 


ON  HIS  OWN  FEET  141 

Peter  considered  that,  fingers  rummaging  about  the  back 
of  his  head.  "  Routt's  looking  for  something,"  he  said. 
"Maybe  he  wants  to  be  prosecuting  attorney.  Or  something. 
I  don't  know." 

"  He  never  will  be,"  said  Amos. 

"  I  guess  that's  right." 

"  Not  as  long  as  I  can  swing  any  votes  here." 

"  Question  is,"  said  Peter,  "  whether  he  knows  you  feel  that 
way." 

"  No,"  Amos  told  him.     "  He  don't  know." 

Peter  looked  sidewise  at  Amos.  "  He  might  be  bought," 
he  suggested.  "  Or  he  might  be  scared.  I  don't  know.  He 
may  be  yellow.  If  he  is,  you  could  scare  him." 

Amos's  pipe  went  out,  and  he  rapped  it  into  his  palm  and 
treasured  the  charred  crumbs  to  prime  his  next  smoke. 
"Peter,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "I'd  like  to  see  Jack.  To 
night." 

Gergue  was  a  good  servant.  He  got  up  at  once.  "  All  right, 
Amos,"  he  said. 

Caretall  went  with  him  to  the  door.  "  I'm  taking  the  noon 
train,  to-morrow,"  he  told  Gergue. 

"  I'll  be  there,"  said  Peter. 

Amos  shut  the  door  behind  him  and  went  back  to  the  fire. 
He  sat  there  for  a  while,  considering.  Then  he  went  out  into 
the  hall  and  called  Agnes.  She  was  in  her  room;  and  she  came 
running  down,  very  gay  and  pretty  in  a  blue-flowered  kimono, 
her  hair  down  her  back  in  a  golden  braid.  Amos  looked  at 
her  thoughtfully.  There  was  always  a  wistful  question  in  his 
eyes  when  he  looked  at  Agnes.  He  met  her  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  and  he  asked: 

"  Agnes,  how'd  you  like  to  go  to  Washington  ?  " 

Now  the  girl  had  gone  to  Washington  one  winter  with 
Amos.  And  she  had  not  liked  it.  Amos  was  just  a  small 
town  Congressman,  one  of  scores.  And  his  daughter  was  just  a 
pretty  girl,  and  nothing  more.  Amos  was  a  small  toad  in 
that  big  puddle;  Agnes  had  found  herself  not  even  a  tadpole. 
And  —  that  did  not  please  Agnes.  Here  in  Hardiston,  she 
was  the  daughter  of  the  biggest  man  in  town;  and  she  was  the 


142  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

prettiest  girl  in  town,  some  said.  At  least,  they  told  her  so. 
Jack  Routt,  and  some  of  the  other  boys. 

"  I  wouldn't  like  it  at  all,  dad,"  she  told  Amos  laughingly. 
"  Washington  is  a  dead  old  place  beside  Hardiston." 

"  I'm  thinking  of  taking  you,"  Amos  said,  watching  her  with 
something  like  sorrow  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  haven't  any  clothes,"  she  protested.  "  I'm  not  ready, 
at  all.  I'd  rather  not  go,  dad." 

"  I'd  rather  you  would,"  he  repeated  gently. 

She  pouted.  "Why?  You're  always  away.  I'd  never  see 
you.  I'd  have  nothing  to  do  at  all.  I  — " 

"  I'd  rather  not  leave  you  and  Wint  alone  here.  Wouldn't  be 
just  the  thing,"  her  father  insisted  gently. 

She  laughed.  "You  funny  old  daddy.  We'd  have  Maria 
for  chaperon." 

"  Wouldn't  be  just  the  thing,"  Amos  said  again. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  eat  Wint,"  she  protested,  half  angry. 
"  We  get  along  beautifully." 

"  Guess  you'd  better  go  along  with  me,"  Amos  told  her. 

She  stamped  her  foot.     "  Dad,  I  don't  want  to." 

Amos  jerked  a  forefinger  up  the  stair,  head  on  one  side, 
eyes  steady.  "  Run  along  and  pack,  Agnes,"  he  said.  "  Won't 
be  much  time  in  the  morning." 

Agnes  began  to  cry.  Amos  watched  her  for  a  moment, 
watched  her  bowed  head,  and  a  load  seemed  to  settle  on  the 
man's  big  shoulders.  He  turned  back  to  the  sitting  room  with 
out  a  word.  After  a  while,  he  heard  her  run  up  the  stairs, 
every  pound  of  her  little  feet  scolding  him,  as  a  bird  scolds. 

Amos  filled  his  pipe  and  began  to  smoke  again. 

Jack  Routt  came  late.  While  he  waited,  Amos  had  smoked 
two  pipes  to  the  last  bubble.  When  Jack  knocked,  he  got  up 
lumberingly  and  went  to  the  door  to  let  the  young  man  in. 
"  Come  in,"  he  said  curtly.  "  Hang  up  your  things." 

He  went  back  and  sat  down  before  the  fire,  and  Jack  Routt 
joined  him  there.  Amos  looked  up  at  him  sidewise.  "Sit 
down,  Routt,"  he  said.  "  Take  a  chair.  Any  chair." 


ON  HIS  OWN  FEET  143 

Routt  sat  down.  "  Gergue  said  you  wanted  to  see  me,"  he 
reminded  Amos. 

"  Yes,"  Amos  agreed.     "  I  told  him  to  tell  you." 

"  Came  as  soon  as  I  could,"  said  Routt. 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Amos.  "  I  wasn't  in  a  hurry.  I'm 
hardly  ever  in  any  hurry.  Things  come,  give  them  time."  The 
colloquialisms  had  fallen  from  his  speech.  Amos  talked  as 
well  as  any  one  when  he  chose;  when  he  was  with  Hardiston 
folks,  he  talked  as  they  talked.  Routt  was  a  college  man. 

Routt  fidgeted  in  his  chair.  He  had  always  been  somewhat 
afraid  of  Amos.  He  wondered  what  the  Congressman  wanted 
now,  but  Amos  did  not  tell  him.  He  just  sat,  staring  at  the 
fire,  smoking.  Like  Gergue,  Routt  was  driven  to  break  the 
silence. 

"  What  did  you  want  with  me,  Amos?  "  he  asked. 

Amos  spat  into  the  fire.  "  Wanted  to  talk  things  over,  Jack," 
he  said.  "  I'm  going  to  Washington  to-morrow." 

"  I've  been  expecting  you'd  go  back." 

"Well,  I'm  going." 

Another  silence,  while  Routt  moved  uneasily.  At  last  he 
said:  "You  put  Wint  over,  all  right." 

"Yes,"  Amos  agreed.  "I  put  him  over."  He  looked  at 
Routt  then,  with  eyes  unexpectedly  keen.  "Think  he'll  make 
a  good  Mayor,  do  you?  " 

"Well,"  said  Routt  slowly,  "he'll  be  all  right  if  he  lets  the 
booze  alone." 

Amos  caught  Routt's  eyes  and  held  them  commandingly. 
"  Jack,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  let  Wint  alone." 

Routt  asked  angrily:  "Me?     What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  don't  want  you  giving  him  any  advice,  and  I  don't  want 
you  getting  him  drunk.  I  want  you  to  let  him  alone.  Is  that 
clear?  " 

Routt  protested:  "I'm  the  best  friend  Wint's  got." 

"You're  the  worst  enemy  he's  got,"  said  Amos.  "And  you 
know  it." 

"  You  can't  say  that,"  Routt  pleaded. 

Amos  did  not  let  go  the  other  man's  eyes.     "You  got  Wint 


144  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

drunk,  day  before  election,"  he  said.  "  You  got  him  drunk 
last  night.  Routt,  don't  you  do  that  again." 

"  I  got  him  drunk?  Good  Lord,  Congressman,  Wint's  a 
grown  man.  I'm  not  his  keeper." 

"  I  made  you  his  keeper,  before  election,"  said  Amos.  "  I 
told  you  to  keep  him  straight.  You  didn't  do  it.  You  got 
him  drunk.  Now  I  tell  you,  let  him  alone." 

"  I  tried  to  keep  him  from  drinking,"  Routt  urged. 

"You  said  to  him,  'Don't  you  drink,  Wint.  It  ain't  good 
for  you.  You  can't  stand  it.'  So  he  drank,  to  show  you  he 
could  stand  it.  Just  as  you  knew  he  would."  Amos  got  up 
with  a  swiftness  surprising  in  that  slow-moving  man.  He  said 
harshly:  "Routt,  get  your  hat  and  get  out.  And  mind  what 
I  say.  '  You  let  Wint  alone." 

Some  men  would  have  sworn  at  Amos,  some  would  have 
defied  him.  Routt  was  the  sort  to  promise  anything.  He  said, 
with  an  assumption  of  straightforward  frankness: 

"  Why,  of  course,  if  you  say  so,  I'll  keep  away  from 
him." 

"  See. that  you  do,"  said  Amos.     "  Now  —  good  night." 

When  the  door  closed  behind  Routt,  Amos  stood  for  a  min 
ute  in  the  hall,  thinking.  "  Now  I  wonder,"  he  asked  himself. 
"  Will  he  do  it?  Was  he  scared  enough  to  keep  hands  off?  I 
wonder,  now." 

Routt,  half  a  block  away,  was  grinning  without  mirth. 
"Damn  him,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Him  and  Wint  too. 
I'll  .  .  ." 

He  wondered  just  what  he  had  best  do;  and  before  he 
reached  home,  he  had  decided  to  go  and  see  V.  R.  Kite. 

Congressman  Caretall  and  Agnes  took  the  noon  train,  next 
day.  Wint  went  with  them  to  the  station,  and  Amos  had  a 
last  word  for  him. 

"Don't  you  get  the  idea  I've  left  you  on  your  own,  Wint," 
he  said.  "  You'll  need  help.  Things'll  come  up.  When  they 
do,  don't  you  try  to  stand  on  your  own  feet.  Just  write  me  — 
or  telegraph.  And  I'll  come,  or  tell  you  what  to  do. 


ON  HIS  OWN  FEET  145 

"  You'll  run  into  trouble.  Don't  you  try  to  fight  it  alone. 
Just  you  call  on  me." 

Then  the  train  pulled  out.  Wint  watched  it  go;  and  when 
it  rounded  the  curve  and  disappeared  beyond  the  electric-light 
plant,  he  grinned. 

"  Run  to  you  when  I  need  help,  will  I,  Amos?  "  he  asked 
good-naturedly,  under  his  breath.  "  I  guess  not.  You've  left 
me  alone.  And  I'm  going  to  stand  on  my  own  hind  legs.  On 
my  own  two  feet,  by  God!  " 

He  turned  and  went  swiftly  back  uptown. 


CHAPTER  II 

JOAN   TO   WINT 

THE  months  of  that  winter  passed  quietly  in  Hardiston. 
The  excitement  of  the  election  was  not  forgotten;  the 
drama  of  Wint's  choice  as  Mayor  became  one  of  the 
stories  to  be  told  about  the  stoves  on  cold  home-keeping  days. 
But  Wint  himself  was  no  longer  an  object  of  curious  interest; 
he  was  just  the  Mayor.  An  inconsiderable  figure  in  the  town. 
There  had  been  Mayors  in  the  past,  and  there  would  be  again. 
Never  amounted  to  much,  one  way  or  another.  Hardiston 
went  along  just  the  same;  the  winters  were  just  as  cold,  the 
summers  just  as  hot,  the  rains  just  as  wet,  the  sun  just  as 
warm. 

Hardiston  is  infamous  for  its  winters  and  for  its  summers. 
In  the  spring  or  in  the  fall  there  is  no  lovelier  spot.  In  the 
spring,  apple  blossoms  clothe  the  hills;  in  the  fall  the  woods 
are  great  splashes  of  flame  against  the  dull  green  of  the 
fields.  But  in  winter  the  mercury  drops  far  below  zero,  and 
climbs  forty  degrees  in  half  a  day.  The  snow  comes  tem 
pestuously,  eight,  ten,  twelve  inches  of  it;  and  it  melts  as 
quickly  as  it  comes.  The  roads  turn  into  mud  at  the  first 
snow;  they  remain  mud  till  the  increasing  heat  of  the  northing 
sun  bakes  them  to  dust.  On  Monday,  every  water  pipe  in  town 
freezes  tight;  on  Tuesday,  violets  bloom  in  sheltered  corners 
about  the  houses.  On  a  cold  morning,  adventurous  boys  skate 
on  the  film  of  ice  that  forms  on  streams  and  ponds;  but  by  noon 
the  ice  is  unsafe,  and  some  one  has  broken  through,  and  by 
mid-afternoon,  it  is  freezing  hard  again. 

This  winter  in  Hardiston  was  like  all  others.  The  new 
Mayor  stuck  strictly  to  business.  Jack  Routt  let  him  alone. 
When  boys  were  arrested  for  misdemeanor,  or  children  of  a 
larger  growth  for  more  pretentious  wrongs,  they  were  brought 
before  Wint  and  he  passed  sentence  upon  them,  marveling  that 

146 


JOAN  TO  WINT  147 

he,  Wint  Chase,  should  be  passing  judgment  on  his  fellow 
man.  At  first,  this  feature  of  his  work  shamed  him;  later 
it  awed  him,  and  made  him  look  into  his  own  heart  and  ask 
whether  he  were  fit  for  such  a  role.  He  tried  to  make  himself 
fit. 

To  act  as  judge  of  the  Mayor's  court  and  to  preside  at 
council  meetings  comprised  the  bulk  of  Wint's  official  duties. 
They  took  only  a  fraction  of.  his  time.  When  the  electric- 
light  plant  went  out  of  commission  with  a  broken  cylinder 
head,  Wint  had  to  do  the  explaining;  when  a  sewer  became 
stopped  up,  he  had  to  see  that  it  was  opened;  when  the  old 
project  for  a  sewage-disposal  plant  came  up  on  its  annual 
burst  of  life,  he  had  to  consider  it.  When  Ned  Howell  filed 
his  regular  yearly  suit  for  damages  done  to  his  pasture  by 
overflow  from  the  sewage-filled  creek,  Wint  had  to  attend  court 
and  testify.  But  —  there  was  time  on  his  hands  and  to  spare. 
He  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  himself. 

He  did  not  undertake  any  crusades.  A  certain  diffidence, 
in  these  first  months,  restrained  him.  He  was  not  sure  of  his 
ground;  he  was  not  sure  of  himself.  V.  R.  Kite's  underlings 
continued  to  peddle  their  wares,  and  the  Mayor's  court  had  to 
deal,  now  and  then,  with  one  of  Kite's  bibulous  customers. 
Wint  dealt  with  them,  but  he  did  not  dig  for  the  root  of  the  evil, 
to  tear  it  out.  Matters  in  Hardiston  went  on  much  as  they 
had  in  the  past.  Men  rose,  did  their  day's  work,  ate,  and  went 
to  bed  again.  Women  likewise.  The  annual  Chautauqua  lec 
ture  course  began  and  was  finished;  Number  Four  theatrical 
companies  came  to  town  with  Broadway  attractions,  played 
one-night  stands,  and  departed  as  they  had  come.  The  moving- 
picture  houses  had  new  films  every  day,  and  the  same  audiences 
day  after  day.  The  dramatic  teacher  in  the  high  school  or 
ganized  a  pageant,  and  it  was  presented  to  the  eyes  of  admiring 
parents  in  the  Rink.  The  high  school  played  basket  ball, 
the  women  played  bridge,  the  men  played  poker  of  a  night. 
Now  and  then  the  Masons  or  the  Knights  of  Pythias  gave  a 
dance.  The  preachers  preached  sermons  in  which  they  tried 
to  prove  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  the  churches. 
The  schools  developed  their  annual  scandal  over  the  discharge 


148  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

of  a  school-teacher.  There  were  the  regular  rumors  of  a  new 
factory  that  was  to  come  to  town;  and  the  rumors  fell  through 
in  the  regular  way.  Now  and  then  a  baby  was  born,  now 
and  then  there  was  a  wedding,  now  and  then  there  was  a 
funeral. 

Wint  stuck  to  his  guns,  and  the  world  rolled  majestically 
and  interminably  on. 

When  Wint  took  hold  of  his  job,  he  wondered  what  there 
was  for  him  to  do.  Dick  Hoover  told  him.  Dick  was  a  lawyer, 
in  with  his  father,  who  had  the  biggest  practice  in  town.  He 
showed  Wint  where  to  look,  in  the  statute  books,  for  the  duties 
of  a  Mayor.  Wint  was  surprised  to  discover  that  laws  were 
simple,  everyday  things,  having  to  do  with  life  as  it  was 
lived.  One  day  when  he  went  to  Dick's  office  to  look  up  a 
statute,  the  book  he  sought  was  in  use.  To  kill  time,  he  took 
down  a  volume  of  Blackstone  and  peered  into  it  curiously. 
He  discovered  that  Blackstone  said  water  was  a  "  movable, 
wandering  thing,"  and  the  description  fascinated  him.  He 
read  on.  .  .  . 

The  more  law  he  read,  the  more  interested  he  became.  In 
January,  he  asked  Dick  Hoover  if  it  were  possible  to  study 
law  in  leisure  hours.  Hoover  told  him  it  was  not  only  possible, 
it  was  easy.  The  end  of  January  saw  Wint  putting  in  his 
spare  time  on  calfskin-bound  volumes  of  which  each  page 
was  one-third  reading  matter  and  two-thirds  footnotes.  The 
first  day  he  picked  up  a  book  of  cases  was  marked  with  a  red 
letter  on  his  mental  calendar.  He  found  these  cases  as  inter 
esting  as  fiction. 

He  begajitp  read  law  systematically.  Dick  Hoover's  father 
was  intere^.,.7*  helped  him.  The  elder  Hoover  told  Wint's 
father  one  day: 

"  Chase,  your  boy  is  going  to  make  a  lawyer  before  he's 
through." 

The  senior  Chase  looked  at  Hoover,  half  minded  to  resent 
the  fact  that  his  son  had  been  mentioned  in  his  presence. 
But  —  the  old  wound  was  healing.  Men  no  longer  took 
occasion  to  remind  him  of  last  fall's  election  with  a  jeer  in 
their  eyes.  His  conditional  alliance  with  Kite  had  languished, 


JOAN  TO  WINT  149 

because  Wint  had  made  no  move  to  make  the  town  dry.  Chase 
hated  Amos  Caretall  as  ardently  as  ever;  but  he  could  not 
hate  his  son.  That  is  not  the  way  with  fathers.  He  loved 
Wint;  he  had  been,  for  some  time,  secretly  proud  of  him. 

He  said  to  Hoover :  "  He's  smart  enough,  if  he  sticks  to  it." 

"  He's  sticking,"  Hoover  told  Wint's  father. 

Winthrop  Chase,  Senior,  nodded  indifferently,  hiding  the 
light  in  his  eyes.  "  He  never  stuck  to  anything  before,"  he 
said,  and  turned  away. 

He  thought  of  telling  Wint's  mother,  that  night,  but  did 
not  do  so.  When  he  spoke  of  Wint  to  her,  it  precipitated  one 
of  her  endless  remarks.  They  wearied  him.  But  he  had 
to  tell  some  one,  so  he  told  Hetty  Morfee,  when  he  went  to 
the  kitchen  for  a  drink  of  water.  Hetty  was  washing  dishes  at 
the  time,  and  she  stopped  with  a  plate  in  one  hand  and  a  dish- 
rag  in  the  other,  and  listened,  and  said  with  a  cheerful  wist- 
fulness  in  her  voice: 

"  Wint's  smart,  sir.     You'll  be  proud  of  him." 

Chase  was  proud  of  him,  but  he  would  not  admit  it  to 
himself,  much  less  to  Hetty. 

"He's  smart  enough,"  he  told  her.  "But  he's  .  .  . 
He's  .  .  ." 

He  turned  abruptly  and  went  out  of  the  kitchen  without 
saying  what  Wint  was,  and  Hetty  looked  after  him  with  under 
standing  in  her  smile.  Then  her  face  became  still  and  somber 
again.  There  was  growing  in  Hetty's  eyes  a  certain  unhappy 
light.  A  desperate  fashion  of  unhappiness,  which  no  one  was 
sufficiently  interested  to  notice.  She  was  not  so  cheerful  as  she 
used  to  be.  And  there  was  a  helplessness  about  her. 

Word  of  Wint's  new  industry  spread  sic-'1;  through 
Hardiston.  It  was  Dick  Hoover  himself  who  told  Joan  of 
it.  Dick  was  a  Mason,  and  he  took  Joan  to  a  Masonic  dance 
one  night.  She  spoke  of  Wint.  "  I  have  heard  that  he  is 
studying  law,"  she  said.  "  Is  it  true?  " 

So  Dick  told  her.  "  True  as  Gospel,"  he  said.  "  And  he's 
darned  quick  to  pick  it  up,  too.  The  principles  ...  Of 
course,  it  will  take  time.  But  I'd  just  as  soon  have  him  try 
a  case  for  me  now,  as  some  of  these  .  .  ." 


150  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

He  went  on  enthusiastically.  Hoover  was  always  enthusi 
astic  about  things.  He  was  an  extremist.  His  friends  were 
the  finest  chaps  in  the  world,  his  enemies  were  the  least  of 
created  things.  But  he  had  few  enemies.  People  liked  him, 
and  he  liked  people.  Joan  liked  him;  liked  him  particularly 
this  evening  because  he  talked  to  her  of  Wint. 

Joan  Arnold  was,  in  a  way  of  speaking,  a  girl  to  tie  to. 
There  was  a  peculiar  steadfastness  in  her.  She  was  a  little 
taller  than  Wint,  and  she  was  habitually  grave  and  quiet, 
especially  when  she  was  with  him.  In  his  presence  she  had 
always  been  faintly  abashed  and  reticent  as  a  girl  is  apt  to 
be  in  the  presence  of  a  man  she  cares  for.  Joan  had  always 
cared  for  Wint.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  was  a  year  or 
two  his  junior,  they  had  played  together  as  children;  and 
they  had  grown  up  together.  When  they  were  little  children, 
they  fought  as  only  good  friends  can  fight.  When  they  were 
a  little  older,  Wint  scorned  her  because  she  was  a  girl.  A 
year  or  so  later,  she  scorned  Wint  because  she  was  at  the 
age  when  girls  resolve  to  have  a  career  and  never  marry  at 
all.  But  in  their  late  teens,  they  were  devoted  to  each  other, 
so  that  the  mothers  of  the  town  smiled  when  they  passed  by, 
and  nodded  to  each  other,  and  whispered,  with  the  delight 
women  take  in  such  matters,  that  they  were  a  nice-looking 
couple  together.  Wint's  short,  sturdy  strength  matched  well 
the  girl's  slightly  larger  stature  and  her  quiet  poise. 

The  first  passage  of  affection  between  them  had  come  when 
she  was  eighteen,  when  he  went  away  to  college.  Before  that 
they  had  been  much  together,  but  none  save  the  most  casual 
words  had  passed  between  them.  The  night  before  Wint  went 
away,  he  went  to  see  her.  He  was  feeling  adventurous  and 
heroic  and  important  as  a  boy  does  feel  when  he  leaves  home 
for  the  first  time.  He  talked  vastly,  of  big  things  he  meant 
to  do,  of  his  dreams.  She  thrilled  to  his  dreams  with  the 
half  of  her  that  was  still  child;  she  smiled  at  his  enthusiasm 
with  the  half  that  was  already  woman.  They  were  sitting  on 
the  porch  of  her  home.  There  were  locust  trees  about  the 
veranda.  They  sat  in  a  two-seated  swing,  facing  each  other, 
Wint  leaning  toward  her  earnestly. 


JOAN  TO  WINT  151 

He  became  melancholy,  and  she  comforted  him  softly.  He 
did  not  want  to  go  away,  he  said.  She  told  him  he  would 
be  happy.  The  movement  of  the  swing  made  him  lean  toward 
her.  There  was  a  moon,  and  the  September  evening  was  warm, 
and  the  very  air  seemed  .trembling  in  a  rhythm  that  beat  upon 
them  both. 

When  he  got  up  to  go,  she  got  up  at  the  same  time,  and 
the  swing'  lurched  and  threw  them  together.  Ineptly,  he  kissed 
her,  fumblingly,  on  the  cheek.  She  did  not  move,  she  trembled 
where  she  stood.  He  took  her  awkwardly  in  his  arms,  as 
though  afraid  she  would  break,  and  kissed  her  cheek  again. 
He  rubbed  his  cheek  against  hers.  She  looked  at  him  with 
wide  eyes,  lips  a  little  parted,  and  he  kissed  her  lips.  They 
were  cool,  unused  to  kisses. 

The  months  thereafter,  till  Wint  was  expelled  from  college, 
passed  smoothly  with  them.  Too  smoothly,  too  placidly. 
They  wrote  short,  broken  letters;  they  saw  each  other  when 
Wint  came  home.  They  thought  they  were  very  happy;  yet 
each  was  conscious  of  a  lack  in  their  happiness.  There  was  no 
fire  in  it,  none  of  the  exquisite  anguish  of  love.  They  missed 
this,  without  knowing  what  they  missed.  All  went  too  well 
with  them. 

Joan  wept  on  her  pillow  when  he  was  expelled,  but  she  did 
not  let  him  see  her  weep.  She  reassured  him.  There  was  an 
unsuspected  strength  in  her.  Women  are  full  of  these  surprises. 
They  are  indescribably  dainty  creatures,  habitually  clad  in 
fabrics  like  gossamer,  seeming  light  as  air  and  fit  to  vanish 
at  a  breath,  who  reveal  —  in  a  bathing  suit,  for  instance  — 
a  surprising  physical  solidity.  It  was  so,  spiritually,  with 
Joan.  She  was  so  quiet  and  so  still  that  Wint,  if  he  had 
thought  at  all,  would  have  supposed  she  was  a  simple  girl  and 
nothing  more;  but  in  the  revelations  of  his  disaster,  she  showed 
a  poise  and  a  power  which  heartened  him  immensely,  and  made 
him  a  little  afraid  of  her.  She  was  a  tower  of  strength  for  him 
to  lean  upon,  a  miracle  of  understanding  and  of  sympathy. 

He  had  expected  her  to  be  shocked  and  revolted  at  the  shame 
of  his  expulsion;  she  was  simply  sorry  for  him,  and  loved  him 
none  the  less.  Wint  knew,  then,  how  much  he  loved  her. 


152  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

There  is  nothing  that  so  inspires  love  in  a  man  as  to  find  himself 
beloved.  This  is  the  conceit  of  the  creature! 

Joan  had  told  Wint  that  she  was  done  with  him,  when  the 
story  of  his  drunken  sleep  in  the  Weaver  House  went  abroad 
through  Hardiston.  But  —  she  had  done  it  for  his  sake.  She 
thought  there  was  good  in  him.  How  could  she  love  him  else? 
She  thought  it  might  come  out  if  he  had  to  fight;  she  thought 
his  very  stubbornness  might  save  him.  Joan  had  no  illusions 
about  Wint.  She  knew  he  was  prideful  and  stubborn.  But  — 
she  loved  him.  And  so  had  told  him  she  would  have  no  more 
of  him.  With  a  reservation  in  her  heart.  .  .  . 

Thus  what  Dick  Hoover  told  her  made  Joan  happy;  happier 
than  Hoover  could  possibly  guess.  Another  girl  would  have 
cried  herself  to  sleep  with  happiness  that  night,  but  Joan  was 
not  given  to  tears.  She  lay  awake  for  a  long  time,  thinking.  .  .  . 

Three  or  four  days  later,  she  met  Wint  on  the  street.  They 
had  met  thus,  often,  for  Hardiston  is  a  small  place.  But 
heretofore  they  passed  with  a  word,  unsmiling.  This  time, 
Wint  would  have  passed  her  in  that  fashion;  but  Joan  stopped 
and  spoke  to  him. 

"  Wint,"  she  said. 

He  had  been  sick  with  hunger  for  a  word  from  her  for 
weeks.  He  stopped  as  though  she  had  struck  him,  and  his 
cheeks  burned  red  as  fire.  He  could  not  have  spoken,  for 
his  life.  He  stood,  hat  in  hand,  face  crimson,  staring  at  her. 

Joan  knew  what  she  wished  to  say.  "  I  want  you  to  know 
that  I  am  proud  of  you,  Wint,"  she  said. 

His  impulse  was  to  laugh,  to  reject  her  friendliness.  The 
old  Wint,  stiff  with  pride,  would  have  done  this.  But  the  old 
Wint  was  gone;  or  at  least,  he  was  going.  This  Wint  who 
stood  before  Joan  tried  to  find  something  to  say,  but  all  he  found 
to  say  to  her  was: 

"Oh!" 

Joan  smiled  at  him.  "There  was  a  time  when  I  wouldn't 
have  dared  say  this,  Wint,"  she  said.  "  But  I  do  dare  now. 
Stick  to  the  fight,  Wint.  This  is  what  I  want  to  say." 

He  said,  sullen  in  his  embarrassment:  "  Fm  going  to." 


JOAN  TO  WINT  153 

"  There  was  a  time  when  you  were  not  going  to  —  just  because 
I  —  your  friends  —  told  you  to  stick." 

Wint  looked  away  from  her.  "  Well,  that's  all  right,"  he  told 
her  uncomfortably. 

"  There's  never  any  harm  in  having  friends,  Wint,  and  taking 
their  advice,"  she  said. 

The  old  impatience  burst  out  for  a  moment.  "  Don't  preach," 
he  said  harshly. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  preach."  She  was  afraid  she  had  spoiled 
it  all.  But  he  reassured  her,  hot  with  shame  at  his  own 
decency. 

"  It's  all  right,  Joan,"  he  said.  "  I  know  you  mean  to  help. 
I'll  try." 

"  Do  try,"  she  echoed  softly. 

He  nodded,  and  she  watched  him,  and  at  last  added: 

"  I'd  like  to  have  you  come  to  see  me  some  time." 

He  hesitated,  then  he  said  swiftly:  "All  right.  Some  time. 
Good-by!  " 

He  jerked  his  head  in  farewell  and  hurried  away  as  though  he 
were  afraid  of  her.  Joan  watched  him  go,  and  she  pressed  her 
hand  to  her  lips  as  though  to  still  them. 


CHAPTER  III 

ROUTT   TO   KITE 

WHEN  Whit   left  Joan,   after   their   encounter  on   the 
street,  he  was  walking  in  a  daze.     He  stumbled,  his 
head    was    down,    his    eyes    were    blank.     He    was 
stunned   and  humbled;    and   after  he  had  left  her,  he  began 
to   feel   defiant.     He  thought  of  words  with  which  he  could 
have  crushed  her  and  silenced  her.     Presuming  to  forgive  him, 
to  praise  him.     What  right  had  she  to  do  that  anyway?     He 
ought  to  have  laughed  at  her. 

Not  that  Wint  did  not  love  Joan.  He  did;  but  he  was  still, 
at  this  time,  a  boy  and  nothing  more.  And  he  had  rather 
more  than  a  boy's  usual  measure  of  stubborn  contrariness  in  him. 
When  his  father,  and  his  mother,  and  Joan,  and  every  one 
else  he  cared  for  had  bade  him  mend  his  ways,  he  had  refused 
to  mend  them,  and  the  thing  had  been  a  scandal  on  every 
tongue  in  Hardiston.  When,  in  like  fashion,  father  and  mother 
and  Joan  bade  him  go  to  the  dogs,  whither  he  seemed  surely 
bound,  he  had  braced  himself,  fought  a  good  fight,  begun  to 
make  good.  Now  Joan  was  telling  him  he  had  made  good, 
that  he  was  all  right.  He  had  a  reckless  desire  to  go  to  the 
devil,  forthwith,  to  prove  her  wrong. 

He  had  met  Joan  at  the  corner  by  the  Star  Company's  fur 
niture  store,  an  institution  that  was  always  holding  fire  sales 
and  closing-out  sales  without  either  fires  before  or  actual 
closings  after.  Their  talk  there  together  had  not  gone  un 
remarked.  Every  one  in  town  would  know  of  it  within  the 
day.  When  they  separated,  Joan  went  away  from  town  toward 
her  home,  and  Wint  went  up  Broadway  toward  the  Court 
House.  Not  that  he  knew  where  he  was  going.  But  he  had 
to  go  somewhere. 

154 


ROUTT  TO  KITE  155 

There  were  only  one  or  two  places  in  Hardiston  to  go  to 
when  you  did  not  know  where  to  go.  You  might  go  to  the 
Smoke  House,  and  shake  dice  for  a  cigar,  or  drop  a  nickel 
in  the  slot  machine  and  see  how  your  luck  was  running.  Or 
you  might  drop  in  at  the  Post  Office  in  the  idle  hope  that  a 
special  train  had  come  along  with  a  letter  for  you  since  the 
last  regular  mail  was  sorted  into  the  boxes.  Or  you  might 
stop  at  one  of  the  newspaper  offices.  The  editors  were  always 
willing  to  talk,  and  there  were  usually  two  or  three  others  there 
before  you. 

Wint  headed,  somewhat  aimlessly,  for  the  Post  Office.  But 
when  he  passed  down  Main  Street,  B.  B.  Beecham,  editor  of 
the  Journal,  called  Wint  in  to  look  at  proofs  of  some  city 
printing.  Wint  always  got  on  well  with  B.  B.  The  editor 
never  preached,  he  never  seemed  to  have  any  particular  interest 
in  the  wrong-doings  of  other  people,  he  attended  to  his  own 
business  and  let  you  attend  to  yours.  A  square-built  man, 
with  a  big  barrel  of  a  chest  and  stocky  shoulders,  and  a  strong, 
amiable  countenance.  Wint  went  in  at  his  hail;  and  B.  B.  got 
the  proofs  for  him,  and  Wint  began  to  look  them  over.  B.  B. 
chunked  up  the  fire  in  the  little  round  iron  stove  that  had 
seen  so  many  years  of  service  it  was  disintegrating.  It 
was  bound  together  with  wire  to  hold  it  together;  and  there 
were  holes  in  the  front  of  it  through  which  the  fire  could  be 
seen.  The  stovepipe  went  up  at  an  angle  like  that  of  the 
leaning  tower  of  Pisa,  then  made  a  back-handed  elbow  turn 
and  ran  along  in  a  hammock  of  wire  braces  to  disappear  into 
the  wall.  B.  B.  thrust  a  bit  of  wood  in  through  the  door,  down 
into  the  fire,  twisted  it  upward,  breaking  up  the  clotted  coals 
and  ashes.  Then  he  put  on  more  coal,  and  shut  the  door,  and 
the  fire  roared  up  the  chimney.  Wint  was  going  over  the 
proofs,  figure  by  figure.  They  had  to  do  with  bids  on  a  sewer 
contract.  B.  B.  sat  down  at  his  desk  with  his  back  to  Wint  and 
busied  himself  with  something. 

B.  B.'s  desk  was  a  roll  top,  its  pigeonholes  frazzly  with 
letters  and  papers  jammed  into  them  to  the  bursting  point. 
The  desk  itself  was  littered  with  newspapers  and  notes  and 
notebooks  and  scratch  pads  made  out  of  old  order  blanks. 


156  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

There  was  an  old  iron  inkwell,  a  tin  box  full  of  pins,  a 
pencil  or  two.  In  a  little  hexagonal  glass  bottle  at  one  side, 
a  newly  hatched  humming  bird  which  had  fallen  from  the  nest 
and  been  killed  was  preserved  in  alcohol.  Not  so  large  as 
a  bumblebee,  and  not  nearly  so  impressive.  For  paper  weight, 
B.  B.  used  a  witch  ball,  taken  from  the  stomach  of  a  steer 
that  Ned  Howell  had  butchered.  A  round,  smooth,  yellowish 
thing,  with  a  hole  picked  in  to  show  the  hair  inside.  It  was 
as  big  as  a  small  orange,  and  looked  not  unlike  one,  save  that 
the  yellow  was  dull  and  muddy.  On  top  of  the  desk  were  books, 
a  big  hornet's  nest,  an  ear  of  corn.  There  was  a  curiously 
marked  squash  on  the  open  iron  safe  in  the  corner;  and  in  the 
rear  of  the  office  a  stand-up  desk  and  a  smaller  one  at  which 
a  person  might  sit  were  littered  with  the  miscellany  of  B.  B.'s 
business. 

While  Wint  was  looking  over  the  proofs,  an  old  darky  came 
in  from  the  street.  A  ragged  old  man.  .  .  .  Wint  knew  him. 
He  lived  down  the  creek  in  a  log  cabin,  and  caught  catfish, 
and  farmed  a  plot  of  ground.  His  hat  was  battered,  his  coat 
was  too  big  for  him,  his  trousers  slumped  about  his  slumping 
shoes.  His  name  was  John  Marshum.  He  took  off  his  hat  and 
looked  around  the  ceiling  of  the  office  uneasily,  as  though  he 
expected  it  to  fall,  and  Wint  and  B.  B.  said  hello  to  him,  and 
he  said: 

"  Howdy." 

B.  B.  asked:  "  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?  " 

The  old  negro  gulped,  and  said :  "  I'd  like  tuh  borry  a  paper 
and  a  pencil,  ef  you  please." 

B.  B.  gave  him  what  he  asked  for,  and  the  old  man  sat  down 
at  the  desk  in  the  back  of  the  room,  and  bit  his  tongue,  and 
gnawed  the  pencil,  and  began  to  write  with  infinite  pains, 
slowly,  the  sweat  bursting  out  of  him  with  the  effort.  Wint 
and  B.  B.  went  on  with  their  affairs. 

After  a  while,  the  old  fellow  got  up  and  crossed  to  B.  B. 
and  held  out  the  product  of  his  effort.  "  Heah's  a  paper  for 
you,  suh,"  he  said.  When  B.  B.  took  it,  the  old  man  hurried 
awkwardly  out  of  the  door  and  disappeared. 

B.  B.  read  the  paper  and  chuckled,  and  Wint  asked :  "  What 


ROUTT  TO  KITE  157 

is  it?  "     The  editor  handed  it  to  him,  and  he  read  the  scrawl 
aloud : 

" '  John  Marshum  was  a  very  plesint  vister  at  this  office 
Thursdy.'  " 

Wint  laughed  good-naturedly.  "  The  poor  old  clown. 
Wants  his  name  in  the  paper.  You  ought  to  put  it  in,  just  to 
make  him  feel  good." 

"  I'm  going  to,"  said  B.  B.  "  Old  John's  one  of  my  best 
friends  in  the  county.  He's  been  a  subscriber  twelve  years, 
and  always  paid  up.  You'd  be  surprised  to  know  how  many 
don't  pay  up.  And  you'd  be  surprised  how  many  people  come 
in,  just  as  he  did,  to  get  their  name?  in  the  paper.  I  don't 
suppose  you  ever  thought  of  that." 

Wint  passed  the  corrected  proofs  over  to  B.  B.  "  One  or 
two  mistakes,"  he  said,  and  the  editor  sent  the  proofs  up  for 
correction.  "What  do  you  do  with  the  darned  fools?  "  Wint 
asked.  "  Tell  them  advertising  space  costs  money?  " 

B.  B.  looked  surprised.  "  No,  I  print  their  names.  That's 
what  the  paper's  for  —  to  print  people's  names.  It  makes 
them  feel  proud  of  themselves,  and  that's  good  for  them. 
It's  one  way  of  helping  them  along,  doing  them  good." 

Wint  grinned.  "  Never  did  me  any  particular  good  to  see 
my  name  in  print,"  he  said.  "  Usually  made  me  mad." 

"  It  wasn't  the  fact  that  they  printed  your  name  that  made 
you  mad.  It  was  what  they  printed  about  you." 

"  Maybe  so,"  Wint  admitted.  "  I  didn't  see  that  it  was  any 
of  their  business." 

"  That's  the  way  the  city  dailies  are  run,"  B.  B.  agreed. 
"  But  a  country  weekly  is  a  different  proposition.  I  never  print 
anything  that  will  make  any  one  mad.  Not  if  I  can  help  it. 
Not  even  a  joke.  A  joke  on  a  man's  no  good  unless  he  can 
appreciate  it  himself." 

Wint  eyed  B.  B.  and  remarked  thoughtfully :  "  I  remember, 
when  they  stuck  me  in  as  Mayor,  you  didn't  print  the  fact  that 
my  father  was  a  candidate." 

"No,"  B.  B.  agreed. 


158  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  I  supposed  that  was  because  you  and  my  father  are  — 
allies  in  politics  and  such  things." 

"  No,"  said  B.  B.  "  I  try  not  to  print  things  that  will  hurt 
people.  Mr.  Chase  felt  badly  about  that." 

"  I  don't  blame  him,"  said  Wint  slowly.  "  You  know  I  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it."  He  had  never  talked  so  freely  to 
any  one  as  he  was  accustomed  to  talk  to  B.  B.  There  was 
some  strain  in  the  editor  that  invited  confidences.  He  knew 
as  many  secrets  as  a  doctor. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  said. 

"  You  know,"  Wint  went  on,  abruptly,  "  people  are  funny, 
B.  B." 

"Yes." 

"  I'm  funny,  myself." 

B.  B.  laughed  in  a  friendly  way.  "  Like  the  old  Quaker  who 
said  to  his  wife:  'All  the  world  is  a  little  queer  save  thee  and 
me,  my  dear ;  and  even  thee  are  at  times  a  little  queer.' " 

"  No,"  said  Wint,  smiling.     "  I  include  myself.     I'm  queer." 

B.  B.  said  nothing.  Wint  started  to  go  on,  but  the  words 
were  not  in  him.  He  had  a  curious,  sudden  impulse  to  ask 
B.  B.  about  his  father;  this  impulse  was  like  homesickness. 
But  he  fought  it  back.  His  jaw  set  stubbornly.  His  father 
had  thrown  him  out.  That  was  enough;  he  didn't  ask  to  be 
kicked  twice. 

When  B.  B.  saw  that  Wint  was  not  going  on,  he  spoke  of 
something  else.  Then  Ed  Howe,  one  of  CaretalPs  men,  dropped 
in  and  cut  a  slice  from  a  plug  and  filled  his  pipe  in  the 
Caretall  fashion;  and  Wint  listened  to  Ed  and  B.  B.  talk  for 
a  while  before  he  got  up  and  took  himself  away.  He  had 
found  some  measure  of  reassurance  in  his  talk  with  B.  B., 
not  because  of  anything  that  had  been  said,  but  simply  because 
B.  B.  was  a  reassuring  man.  A  strong  man.  A  strong  man, 
and  a  wise  man,  with  open  eyes  —  and  an  optimist.  Not  all 
men  who  seem  to  see  clearly  are  optimists. 

In  front  of  the  Post  Office,  Wint  ran  into  Jack  Routt.  Routt 
had  been  out  of  town  for  a  month  or  so  on  a  business  trip, 
and  Wint  had  seen  little  of  him  since  Amos  went  away.  He 
was  glad  to  see  Jack,  and  said  so.  They  shook  hands,  and 


ROUTT  TO  KITE  159 

Wint   bought   Routt   a   cigar.     Routt   studied   Wint   curiously. 
He  wondered  if  it  were  true  that  Wint  was  keeping  straight 
and  doing  well.     And  to  find  out,  he  asked  laughingly: 
"  Been  over  to  see  Mrs.  Moody  lately,  old  man?  " 

Mrs.  Moody  was  that  virago  who  managed  the  Weaver  House, 
that  woman  of  the  hideously  beautiful  false  teeth.  Wint 
flushed  uncomfortably  at  mention  of  her.  "  No-o,"  he  said 
hesitantly. 

"That's  the  boy,"  said  Routt.  "You  keep  away  from  her. 
You  let  the  stuff  alone.  You  can't  monkey  with  it,  the  way  some 
fellows  can,  old  man." 

And  he  watched  Wint.  There  had  been  a  time  when  this 
word  would  have  acted  as  a  challenge,  when  Wint  would  have 
snapped  at  the  bait.  But  —  Wint  hesitated,  he  considered,  he 
shook  himself  a  little  and  said  quietly: 

"  I  guess  you're  right,  Jack." 

"You  bet  I'm  right,"  said  Routt. 

Wint  nodded.     "  Yes,"  he  agreed. 

When  they  separated,  Routt  went  to  his  office  and  sat  down 
with  his  feet  on  his  desk  to  consider.  And  —  he  scowled. 
Matters  were  not  going  well  with  him.  It  did  not  suit  him 
for  Wint  to  keep  straight.  It  did  not  suit  him  to  lie  supine 
under  Amos  Caretall's  injunction  to  let  Wint  alone.  The 
Congressman's  command  had  irked  him  more  than  once,  and 
more  than  once  he  had  thought  of  V.  R.  Kite  in  that  connection, 
and  thought  of  going  to  Kite.  He  had  a  fairly  definite  idea 
that  Amos  would  never  help  him  along  politically,  and  Kite 
might  be  able  to.  And  —  he  remembered  the  word  Wint  had 
fastened  on  Kite  on  the  day  of  his  inauguration.  He  had 
called  Kite  a  buzzard,  and  others  had  taken  it  up.  The  name 
seemed  to  fit;  it  tickled  the  sense  of  humor  of  Hardiston 
folks.  But  it  did  not  tickle  V.  R.  Kite.  Kite  ought  to  be 
ready  to  take  means  to  crush  Wint.  And  —  that  would  please 
Routt.  He  had  held  off  thus  long  in  the  belief  that  Wint  would 
be  his  own  ruin.  He  began  to  doubt  this,  now.  It  might 
be  necessary  to  do  something. 

Routt  was  of  mean  stuff,  small  and  tawdry.  He  had  been 
what  Hardiston  called  a  mean  boy,  a  trouble-maker.  He 


160  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

had  an  infinite  capacity  for  hate,  a  curious  shrewdness  that 
enabled  him  to  fasten  on  another's  weakest  point.  As  boys, 
he  and  Wint  had  fought  once.  They  fought  over  Joan, 
because  Routt  teased  her  till  she  cried.  Wint  had  whipped 
him,  though  Routt  was  the  taller  and  the  heavier  of  the  two. 
Routt  had  never  forgotten  that;  but  Wint  forgot  it  as  soon  as 
the  incident  was  over.  Wint  forgot,  and  Routt  remembered. 
Circumstances  threw  them  much  together;  they  grew  up  as 
friends;  Routt  behaved  himself;  people  decided  that  he  had 
outgrown  his  meanness.  Wint  liked  him,  did  not  distrust 
him,  accepted  him  for  what  he  seemed  —  a  friend. 

But  Jack  Routt  was  nobody's  friend.  Sometimes,  when  he 
was  alone,  you  might  have  seen  this  in  his  face.  It  was  so 
now,  as  he  thought  of  Wint;  his  countenance  was  twisted  and 
distorted  and  malignant.  In  later  years,  it  was  to  bear  the 
marks  of  these  secret  and  rancorous  moments  for  any  eye  to 
see.  Indelible  and  unmistakable.  But  just  now  Routt  knew 
how  to  smile,  how  to  be  a  good  fellow.  .  .  . 

He  brought  his  feet  down  from  the  desk  with  a  bang.  He 
got  up  and  reached  for  his  hat.  He  had  made  up  his  mind;  he 
would  go  and  see  Kite. 

Kite  was  in  town.  Routt  knew  he  would  find  the  man  in 
the  Bazaar,  the  town's  five  and  ten  cent  store.  He  went  that 
way,  but  as  he  reached  the  place,  Peter  Gergue  came  along 
the  street  and  Routt  went  past  without  entering.  Just  as  well 
Gergue  should  not  know  that  he  was  seeing  Kite.  Gergue 
would  tell  Amos.  When  Gergue  had  disappeared,  Routt  went 
back  and  turned  into  the  Bazaar.  Kite's  desk  was  in  the  back 
of  the  store,  ,but  Kite  was  not  in  sight.  The  little  man  might 
be  hidden  behind  the  desk.  One  of  the  girls  who  clerked  ^in 
the  store  —  her  name  was  Mary  Dale,  and  she  was  a  pretty, 
simple  little  thing  — asked  Routt  what  he  wanted,  and  he 
stopped  to  talk  to  her  for  a  moment.  Routt  liked  pretty 
girls.  He  asked  her  if  Kite  was  in,  and  she  said  he  was  at 
his  desk,  so  Routt  went  back  that  way.  He  drew  up  a  chair 
to  face  the  little  man,  and  Kite  cocked  his  head  on  his  thin 
neck,  and  tugged  at  his  side  whiskers.  "  Howdo,  Routt,"  he 
said. 


ROUTT  TO  KITE  161 

"  Morning,"  Routt  rejoined.     "  How's  tricks,  Kite?  " 

"All  right."  Kite  looked  suspicious.  Routt  offered  him 
a  cigar,  which  Kite  declined.  Jack  lighted  it  himself,  then  said 
idly: 

"  Well,  I  just  got  back." 

"Been  away?" 

"  Yes.     Columbus." 

"Oh!" 

"  I  see  Wint  hasn't  closed  down  on  you  yet,"  Routt  drawled. 

Kite  flushed  angrily.  "  Of  course  not.  Why  should  he? 
He's  no  fool." 

"  I  said  he  hadn't  shut  down  on  you  —  yet,"  Routt  repeated, 
and  he  emphasized  the  last  word. 

"  He  likes  his  drop  now  and  then,  same  as  another  man." 

"  Hasn't  been  taking  many  drops  lately,  has  he?  " 

"  I'm  not  his  guardian.  How  do  I  know?  Long  as  he  lets 
me  alone." 

Routt  grinned.  "  I  heard  he  didn't  let  you  alone,  day  he 
was  inaugurated.  Called  you  a  buzzard,  didn't  he?  " 

"  The  man  was  drunk." 

"  Name's  kind  of  stuck,  though.  A  darned,  rotten  thing  like 
that  will  stick." 

Kite  was  trying  to  keep  calm,  but  he  was  an  irascible  little 
man.  He  snapped  at  Routt:  "  What  do  I  care  for  names?  They 
break  no  bones." 

"  Well,  that's  so,"  Routt  agreed  good-naturedly. 

"  Long  as  he  lets  me  alone,  I'm  satisfied,"  Kite  said  again. 

Routt  nodded.  "  How  long  do  you  figure  he'll  let  you 
alone?  "  he  asked. 

Kite's  temper  got  away  from  him.  "  By  God,  he'd  better 
let  me  alone!  "  He  banged  a  clenched  fist  on  the  table.  Routt 
drawled : 

"Don't   get   excited." 

"  I'm  n-not  excited,"  Kite  stammered.  "  But  he'll  let  me 
alone.  He  don't  dare  to  bother  me.  Why,  Routt,  if  he  tries 
anything,  I'll  —  I'll  get  out  of  town.  I  won't  live  in  the  place. 
I'll  take  my  money  out  of  the  dirty  little  hole." 

"  We-ell,"  said  Routt,  "  you  could  do  that,  of  course.     That 


162  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

would  suit  him.  He'd  get  his  own  way,  then.  You  could  get 
out.  Or  you  might  fight  him." 

"  Fight  him?  "  Kite  snapped.  "  I'll  fight  him  to  the  last 
dollar."  He  controlled  himself  with  an  effort.  "But  he's 
not  going  to  start  anything.  I  know  him.  He's  inoffensive. 
A  boy." 

"  Amos  Caretall  is  no  boy,"  Routt  reminded  him.  "  And 
Amos  is  backing  him." 

Kite  remembered  that  Winthrop  Chase,  Senior,  had  told  him 
this  same  thing;  had  warned  him  that  Amos  meant  to  use  Wint 
to  clean  up  the  town.  He  and  Chase  had  made  an  alliance 
on  that  basis.  If  Wint  tried  a  crusade,  they  would  go  after 
Amos  together,  and  hang  his  hide  on  the  fence.  They  had 
sworn  that  together.  .  .  .  Now  Routt  was  saying  the  same 
thing.  He  had  been  feeling  fairly  secure;  he  and  Chase  had 
made  no  move.  Chase  had  wanted  him  to  start  a  back  fire 
against  Amos,  but  Kite  had  been  ready  to  let  well  enough 
alone.  .  .  .  Now  Routt  .  .  .  Routt  was  one  of  Caretall's 
men.  He  would  be  likely  to  know  what  the  Congressman 
planned.  Kite  demanded  angrily: 

"  What  makes  you  think  Amos  is  planning  anything?  He 
and  I  understand  each  other." 

Routt  laughed.  "  Amos  would  double  cross  his  best  friend 
and  call  it  a  joke,"  he  said  amiably.  "You  know  that.  Didn't 
he  double  cross  Chase?  " 

"  Sure.     I  helped  him,"  said  Kite  defiantly. 

"  Next  thing,"  Routt  told  him,  "  he'll  double  cross  you." 

Kite  leaned  across  and  gripped  Routt  by  the  arm.  "  What 
makes  you  say  that?  You  and  Amos  are  together." 

"We  were,"  said  Routt,  "but  I  told  him  a  few  things  he 
didn't  like.  I'm  no  particular  friend  of  Amos." 

Kite  said :  "  I'm  not  either.  But  as  long  as  he  plays  fair 
with  me,  I'll  play  fair  with  him." 

"  What  if  he  don't?  " 

"I'll    smash   him." 

"  You  can't  smash  Amos,"  said  Routt,  "  but  you  can  hurt 
him." 

"How?" 


ROUTT  TO  KITE  163 

"  Smash  young  Wint." 

Kite  snorted.     "Pshaw!     Wint's  a  boy." 

"  He's  growing  up.  One  of  these  days,  he's  going  to  send 
for  Jim  Radabaugh  and  tell  him  to  clean  up  the  town.  .  .  ." 

"By  God,  if  he  does,"  Kite  swore,  "I'll  tear  him  all  to 
pieces." 

Routt  got  up.  "When  you  start  in  to  do  that,"  he  said, 
"  send  for  me.  I  might  be  able  to  help." 

"  I  won't  need  any  help  to  rip  Wint  Chase  wide  open." 

"  You  send  for  me,"  said  Routt  insistently. 

"All  right.     I'll  send  for  you." 

"  I'll  be  here,"  Routt  promised.  When  he  went  out  through 
the  store,  he  stopped  and  told  Mary  Dale  she  was  the 
prettiest  girl  in  town.  Mary  was  pleased.  She  knew  he 
didn't  mean  it;  she  was  simple  enough,  if  you  like;  but  she 
knew  there  were  probably  other  girls  just  as  pretty  as  she 
was.  Nevertheless,  she  was  glad  Jack  had  told  her  she  was 
pretty.  She  thought  it  meant  he  was  pleased  with  her. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  only  meant  that  he  was  pleased  with 
himself.  But  that  was  a  thing  Mary  Dale  could  not  be  expected 
to  understand. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WINT   TO   JOAN 

WINT  had  lived  very  comfortably  that  winter,  in  Amos 
Caretall's  home,  with  old  Maria  Hale  to  take  care 
of  him.     In  the  beginning,  when  Amost  went  away, 
he  had  protested  at  this  arrangement.     He  told  Amos  he  would 
go  to  a  hotel,  to  a  boarding  house,  hire  a  room  somewhere.  .  .  . 
He   said   he   would    not   impose   on   Amos   by    living   on   his 
bounty. 

Amos  laughed  at  him  and  said  Wint  would  not  be  living  on 
any  one's  bounty.  "  I  aim  to  charge  you  board  and  keep," 
he  said.  "And  that's  velvet  for  me,  because  I'd  keep  the 
house  going  anyway.  Got  to,  to  keep  old  Maria.  If  I  ever 
let  go  of  her,  somebody'd  grab  her  in  a  minute." 

Wint  knew  it  was  Amos's  habit  to  keep  the  house  open  and 
Maria  in  it,  even  when  he  and  Agnes  were  both  away;  so 
he  accepted  the  proposition.  The  board  which  Amos  required 
him  to  pay  was  nominal ;  and  Wint  wanted  to  pay  more.  Amos 
shook  his  head. 

"  First  thing  you  want  to  learn,  Wint,  is  never  to  pay  a 
man  more  than  he  asks,  for  anything.  He'll  think  you're  a 
blamed  fool." 

So  Wint  had  been  comfortable.  Maria  knew  how  to  cook, 
she  kept  the  house  neat,  she  picked  up  after  Wint's  disorder- 
liness.  And  she  mothered  Wint  as  her  kind  know  how  to  do. 

He  was  comfortable,  but  he  was  lonely,  desperately  lonely. 
Wint  was  a  convivial  young  man.  He  liked  to  be  with  people. 
He  had  never  been  much  in  his  own  exclusive  company.  Some 
one  said  that  it  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone;  but  it  is 
equally  true  that  it  is  not  good  for  a  man  never  to  be  alone. 
Solitude  is  good  for  the  soul.  It  gives  an  opportunity  for  a 
certain  amount  of  thought,  for  taking  stock  of  one's  self.  If 
every  one  could  be  persuaded  to  an  hour's  solitary  self- 
consideration  each  day,  the  world  would  be  bettered  thereby. 

164 


WINT  TO  JOAN  165 

It  is  hard  to  deceive  yourself.  Wint  found  out  the  truth  of 
this  in  his  solitary  evenings  that  winter.  He  found  himself 
forced  to  face  facts,  and  face  them  squarely;  he  found  him 
self  forced  to  recognize  his  own  mistakes. 

Thus  his  loneliness  did  him  no  harm;  but  it  did  make  him 
uncomfortable.  The  fact  that  he  was  much  alone  resulted 
from  two  or  three  circumstances  and  causes.  His  father  had 
cast  him  out;  so  he  saw  his  father  and  mother  not  at  all.  And 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  see  them  every  day,  all  his  life.  It 
is  true  there  had  usually  been  little  pleasure  for  him  in  these 
encounters.  His  father's  harshness,  his  mother's  garrulous 
tongue  had  irked  and  angered  him.  They  had  worked  at  cross- 
purposes,  as  families  are  apt  to  do.  There  had  been  little 
obvious  sympathy  and  understanding  between  them.  Never 
theless,  Wint  found  that  he  missed  them;  that  he  missed  his 
father's  overbearing  accusations,  and  he  missed  his  mother's 
interminable  talk.  Once  or  twice,  when  he  met  her  on  the 
street,  he  stopped  to  talk  with  her;  and  he  took  a  certain 
comfort  from  the  flow  of  breathless  reproaches  which  poured 
out  upon  him  at  these  times.  Mrs.  Chase  was  as  unhappy  that 
winter  as  a  mother  must  be  when  her  son  is  set  apart  from 
her;  but  she  was  loyal  to  her  husband,  and  reproached  Wint 
for  his  disloyalty. 

Wint  missed  Joan,  too.  He  missed  her  enormously.  There 
was  never  any  doubt  that  Joan  was  half  the  world  to  him. 
He  had  longed  for  her  desperately  at  times;  he  had  wanted 
to  go  and  abase  himself  before  her.  But  he  would  not;  he 
was  strong  enough  to  keep  to  his  own  path.  And  Joan  kept 
to  hers. 

The  fact  that  Wint  and  Joan  were  thus  at  odds  made  Wint 
an  awkward  figure  in  any  group  of  young  people,  because 
Joan  was  almost  sure  to  be  there.  He  knew  this  as  well  as 
any  one.  So  when  Dick  Hoover  asked  him  to  go  to  the  dances, 
he  refused  because  Joan  would  be  there;  and  when  Elsie  Jenkins 
asked  him  to  a  card  party,  he  refused  again,  and  for  the  same 
reason.  But  he  did  not  tell  Dick  and  Elsie  what  this  reason 
was.  As  a  consequence,  people  stopped  asking  him  to  the  fes 
tivities  of  Hardiston,  and  Wint  was  left  solitary. 


166  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Solitary,  and  lonely.  He  was  so  lonely,  that  night  of  Elsie's 
party,  that  he  walked  past  her  house  for  the  sheer,  hungry  joy 
of  looking  in  through  her  windows  at  the  throng  inside.  He 
often  walked  about  the  town  in  the  evenings,  thus.  Sometimes 
it  was  to  pass  Joan's  home.  .  .  .  And  he  did  a  deal  of  thinking, 
and  of  wondering;  and  he  made  a  resolution  or  two.  .  .  . 

When  Joan  spoke  to  him,  asked  him  to  come  and  see  her, 
Wint  experienced  a  strange  revulsion  of  feeling.  He  was  un 
happy,  and  he  told  himself  he  would  never  go;  and  he  went 
uptown  and  dropped  in  on  B.  B.  Beecham  and  had  that 
innocuous  and  idle  talk  with  the  editor,  which  never  touched 
on  his  troubles  at  all.  Nevertheless,  Wint  emerged  from  the 
Journal  office  in  a  more  cheerful  frame  of  mind.  People  were 
apt  to  be  more  cheerful,  and  more  optimistic,  and  more  resolved, 
after  talking  with  B.  B.  This  was  one  of  the  virtues  of  the 
man. 

Wint  decided,  after  leaving  B.  B.,  that  he  would  go  and  see 
Joan.  Some  time.  .  .  .  He  decided  he  would  not  be  in  any 
hurry  about  it.  Next  month,  perhaps,  or  next  week,  or  in  a 
day  or  two  .  .  . 

As  might  have  been  expected,  the  end  of  it  was  that  he  went 
to  see  her  that  night.  For  Wint  was  still  half  boy,  with  a 
boy's  impatience;  and  he  had  been  lonely  for  Joan  for  so 
long.  After  supper,  with  the  long  evening  before  him,  and 
nothing  to  do,  he  thought  of  going  to  Joan.  He  swore  he 
wouldn't  go;  but  he  wanted  to,  so  badly.  Why  shouldn't  he? 
She  had  asked  him.  He  wouldn't  and  he  would,  and  he 
wouldn't  and  he  would.  .  .  . 

In  the  end,  he  decided  to  walk  out  to  her  home  and  see 
if  he  could  see  her,  through  the  window.  There  was  snow  on 
the  ground,  it  was  fairly  cold.  He  bundled  up  in  overcoat 
and  cap  and  filled  a  pipe  and  lighted  it,  and  set  out.  He 
would  just  walk  past  the  house,  come  back  another  way,  go 
to  bed  .  .  .  That  would  do  no  harm. 

But  even  while  he  tried  to  tell  himself  this  was  what  he 
meant  to  do,  he  knew  that  he  would  not  come  back  without 
seeing  Joan  —  if  the  thing  were  possible.  And  when  he  got  to 


WINT  TO  JOAN  167 

the  house,  he  saw  that  it  was  possible.  The  shades  were  up 
at  the  sitting-room  window;  he  could  see  her,  reading  before 
the  fire.  She  was  alone. 

So  Wint  went  reluctantly  up  the  walk  from  the  street,  and 
he  hesitated  at  the  steps,  and  then  he  went  up  the  steps,  stamping, 
and  knocked  at  the  door.  He  heard  Joan  stirring,  inside. 
Then  the  door  opened,  and  Joan  was  there  before  him.  The 
light  behind  her  shone  through  her  hair;  her  eyes  were  dark 
and  steady. 

The  light  fell  on  his  face,  and  she  said  quietly :  "  Hello, 
Wint.  I'm  —  glad  you  came." 

Wint  took  off  his  cap,  and  held  it  in  his  hand.  She  thought 
he  looked  very  like  a  boy.  He  said  nothing;  and  Joan  moved 
a  little  to  one  side  and  bade  him  come  in.  He  went  in,  like 
a  man  walking  in  his  sleep,  and  she  shut  the  door  behind  him. 
Wint  stood  in  the  hall  as  though  he  did  not  know  what  to 
do.  He  wanted  to  run;  but  the  door  was  shut. 

She  said :  "  Take  off  your  coat."  So  he  did,  and  laid  it  on 
a  chair  in  the  hall,  and  put  his  cap  on  top  of  it.  Joan  told 
him  to  come  into  the  sitting  room;  and  he  said  huskily: 

"  All  right." 

So  they  went  in  and  sat  down  together  before  the  fire.  And 
Wint  wished  he  had  not  come.  He  crossed  his  legs  one  way, 
then  he  crpssed  them  the  other.  He  folded  his  arms,  he  folded 
his  hands  in  his  lap,  he  cleared  his  throat,  he  leaned  forward 
with  his  elbows  on  his  knees.  He  did  not  look  at  Joan;  but 
Joan  watched  him,  and  by  and  by  she  smiled  a  little,  and  her 
smile  seemed  like  a  caress  upon  his  bent  head. 

Wint  said  abruptly:  "Your  people  all  right?" 

"Yes,"  Joan  told  him. 

He  muttered  angrily  that  that  was  good;  and  silence  fell 
upon  them  again.  He  twisted  in  this  silence,  like  a  caterpillar 
on  a  pin.  He  was  immensely  relieved  when  Joan  spoke  at 
last. 

"  What  shall  we  talk  about,  Wint?  "  she  asked  steadily.  "  Do 
you  want  to  talk  about  your  —  fight?  What  are  you  doing?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  dourly,  staring  at  the  fire. 


168  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Joan  watched  him,  not  resenting  his  sullenness,  because  she 
had  understanding.  After  a  little,  she  said  gently :  "  I  saw 
your  mother  the  other  day." 

Wint  shot  a  quick  glance  at  her.  He  could  not  help  it. 
"That  so?"  he  asked. 

Joan  nodded,  and  she  smiled  a  little  wistfully.  "  Yes.  She 
misses  you.  She  and  your  father  .  .  ." 

"  They  haven't  told  me  so,"  said  Wint  morosely. 

"  Have  you  talked  with  them?  "  she  asked. 

"No.  My  father—"  For  the  life  of  him,  he  could  not 
stifle  the  choke  in  his  voice.  "  No,  I  haven't,"  he  said. 

"You  couldn't,  of  course,"  she  agreed,  and  she  looked  at 
him  sidewise.  "  Of  course,  if  you  went  to  them,  your  father 
would  think  you  were  trying  to  make  up.  You  couldn't 
do  that."  There  was  an  anxiety  in  her  eyes;  the  anxiety 
of  the  experimenter.  Wint  went  by  contraries.  Joan  knew 
quite  clearly  what  she  wanted;  she  wanted  him  to  go  to  his 
father.  Was  this  the  way  to  lead  him  to  make  the  first 
move? 

She  was  frightened  at  what  she  had  done  when  he  looked 
at  her  angrily.  "  See  here,"  he  said,  "  do  you  want  me  to 
go  to  him?  Ek>  you  think  I  ought  to?  "  She  was  so  fright 
ened  that  she  could  not  speak;  but  she  nodded.  Wint  barked 
at  her: 

"Then  why  don't  you  say  so?  I'm  sick  of  having  people 
make  me  do  things  by  telling  me  not  to." 

"  I  wasn't  trying  to  —  make  you  do  it,  Wint,"  she  said ;  and 
she  was  almost  pleading. 

"You  were;  and  you  know  it,"  he  told  her  flatly.  "  Weren't 
you,  now?  Secretly  trying  to  make  me  .  .  ." 

Joan  could  not  lie  to  him.     "  Y-Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Then  come  out  with  it,"  Wint  demanded ;  and  he  got  up 
and  stamped  about  the  room,  and  words  burst  from  him. 
"  Joan,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I've  been  a  fool,  and  I  know  it.  Am 
one  still,  I  suppose.  Hate  to  be  preached  to  and  told  what 
I  must  do,  and  mustn't.  You  know  that.  Result  is,  I'm  always 
in  trouble.  Jack  Routt,  best  friend  I've  got,  does  me  more 
harm  than  my  worst  enemy  —  just  trying  to  keep  me  straight. 


WINT  TO  JOAN  169 

I've  always  known  it,  in  a  way.  Knew  I  was  a  fool.  But  I've 
been  just  contrary  enough  to  refuse  to  be  preached  to.  That's 
the  way  I'm  made.  Only,  for  God's  sake,  don't  you  start 
trying  to  manage  me."  He  hesitated,  groping  for  words,  and 
his  voice  was  suddenly  weary  and  lonely  as  he  said :  "  You 
ought  to  be  able  to  talk  straight  to  me,  Joan." 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment;  then  she  said  simply: 
"  I'm  sorry,  Wint.  I  was  wrong." 

That  took  the  wind  out  of  him.  He  had  hoped  she  would 
argue  with  him.  He  wanted  an  argument,  wanted  a  hot  com 
bat  of  words;  he  was  full  of  things  that  he  wanted  to  say.  To 
show  her  .  .  .  Justify  himself  to  her.  But  you  can't  argue 
with  a  person  who  agrees  with  you.  He  sat  down  as  abruptly 
as  he  had  risen,  and  stared  again  at  the  fire. 

Joan  asked,  after  a  time:  "Are  you  sure  Jack  Routt  is  really 
your  friend,  Wint?  " 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  looking  at  her.  "  Why  not?  What 
do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  don't  like  him." 

He  laughed.  "A  girl  never  likes  a  man's  friends.  Jack's 
all  right.  He's  a  prince." 

"Is  he?" 

"  Sure  he  is." 

Joan  said  no  more  about  Routt.  She  spoke  of  other  things, 
trivial  things;  and  for  an  hour  she  and  Wint  managed  to  talk 
easily  enough  without  touching  on  forbidden  ground.  It  was 
not  till  he  got  up  to  go  that  they  spoke  seriously  again.  She 
had  helped  him  on  with  his  coat.  At  the  door,  he  faced  her; 
and  he  asked: 

"  Joan,  d'you  really  think  I  ought  to  —  patch  things  up  at 
home?  " 

She  answered  him  straightforwardly:     "Yes,  Wint." 

He  looked  past  her,  eyes  thoughtful;  and  at  last  he  held 
out  his  hand.  "  Well,  good  night,"  he  said.  "  Maybe  I  will." 

They  shook  hands,  and  he  went  out  and  tramped  swiftly 
back  to  Amos's  house.  There  was  a  bounding  elation  in  him; 
his  head  was  among  the  stars. 


CHAPTER  V 

WINT  GOES   HOME 

WINT  had  thought  of  going  to  his  father  before  he 
talked  with  Joan.  He  had  tried  advances  now  and 
then.  Once  he  met  the  elder  Chase  on  the  street 
and  stopped  to  talk  with  him,  but  his  father  passed  by  with 
a  curt  word  of  greeting.  Another  time,  he  saw  Chase  in  the 
Journal  office  and  went  in.  Chase  and  B.  B.  Beecham  were 
talking  together;  but  when  Wint  came  in,  his  father  got  up 
and  departed.  Wint  had  said: 

"  Don't  let  me  drive  you  away.     I  just  happened  in." 

But  the  senior  Chase  said :  "  I  was  going,  anyway,"  and  he 
went. 

These  incidents  had  roused  the  old  resentment  in  Wint,  but 
they  had  hurt  him  more  than  they  had  angered  him.  And 
the  hurt  persisted,  while  the  resentment  died.  He  found  excuses 
for  his  father.  He  blamed  himself;  and  he  thought  of  ways 
of  approaching  the  older  man  with  some  hope  of  success,  and 
discarded  them  one  by  one. 

Seeing  Joan  gave  him  new  confidence  in  himself.  She  had 
let  him  come  to  see  her;  his  father  could  do  no  less.  Wint 
had  no  illusions  as  to  Joan.  He  understood  that  she  wanted 
to  help  him,  wanted  to  be  proud  of  him;  but  he  understood 
also  that  he  was  on  probation.  He  had  not  proved  himself,  in 
her  eyes.  That  must  come  with  time.  They  had  talked  frankly 
enough  together;  but  —  they  had  merely  shaken  hands  at 
parting.  That  was  all ;  that  was  all  he  had  any  right  to  expect. 
He  could  wait  —  and  work  —  for  the  rest. 

It  was  much  that  she  had  asked  him  to  come  to  her.  It 
meant  that  he  was  no  longer  outcast  in  her  eyes;  and  the 
realization  of  this  gave  him  new  self-respect.  It  was  this 
very  self-respect  that  enabled  him  to  humble  himself  to  his 
father.  A  man  can  be  servile  without  being  self-respecting; 

170 


WINT  GOES  HOME  171 

but  self-respect  and  true  humility  are  synonyms.  Each  implies 
a  true  self-appraisal.  Wint  was  a  man,  doing  his  work  among 
men.  He  was  also  his  father's  son;  and  it  was  as  a  son  that 
he  went  to  his  father  at  last. 

He  found  the  elder  Chase  at  home  one  evening.  He  had 
made  sure  that  his  father  would  be  at  home;  but  he  was  glad, 
when  he  got  there,  to  find  that  his  mother  had  gone  next  door. 
His  mother  could  not  understand;  and  no  one  else  could  talk 
much  when  she  was  about.  Wint  smiled  when  he  thought  of 
her;  then  his  lips  steadied.  There  was  need  for  talk  between 
his  father  and  himself. 

His  father  came  to  the  door;  and  when  he  saw  Wint,  he 
stared  at  him  coldly,  and  did  not  invite  him  to  come  in.  Wint, 
with  a  sudden  twinge  of  sorrow,  saw  that  his  father  had  changed 
and  grown  older  in  these  last  months.  It  seemed  to  Wint 
that  his  hair  was  thinner;  there  were  new  lines  in  his  face;  and 
his  old  benevolent  condescension  toward  the  world  at  large 
was  gone.  Wint  said  quietly: 

"  I  want  to  come  in  and  talk  with  you  if  I  may." 

Chase  hesitated,  even  then;  but  —  he  had  been  lonely  as 
Wint  had  been  lonely.  He  stepped  to  one  side  and  said: 
"  Very  well."  Wint  went  in,  and  his  father  shut  the  door,  and 
bade  Wint  come  into  the  room  off  the  hall  that  served  him  as 
library,  and  office,  and  den.  He  did  not  tell  Wint  to  take 
off  his  coat,  so  Wint  kept  it  on.  Chase  sat  down  at  his  desk, 
Wint  took  a  chair  facing  him.  He  did  not  know  how  to 
begin. 

Chase  said:  "  Well,  what  is  it  you  want?  " 

Wint  hesitated,  then  he  smiled  a  little  wistfully;  and  he  said: 
"  I  want  to  be  —  friends  with  you  again." 

His  father  abruptly  looked  away  from  him.  Without 
looking  at  Wint,  he  asked: 

"  Why?  " 

Wint's  right  hand  moved  in  a  curious,  appealing  way.  "  Isn't 
it  natural  for  a  son  to  —  want  to  be  friends  with  his  father, 
sir?  "  he  suggested. 

Chase  said  harshly :  "  I  told  you,  once,  that  I  no  longer 
counted  you  my  son." 


172  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"Those  things  don't  go  by  what  we  want,  sir,"  Wint  urged. 
"I  —  am  your  son.  And  you're  my  father." 

"Have  you  acted  as  a  son  should?  "  Chase  asked  coldly. 

"  No,"  said  Wint,  without  palliation  of  the  finality  of  the 
word,  and  Chase  looked  —  and  was  surprised. 

"You've  realized  it,  have  you?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

There  was  one  thing  Chase  wanted  to  do;  and  it  made  him 
feel  ridiculous  and  ashamed  of  himself  to  want  to  do  it. 
What  he  wanted  to  do  was  to  take  Wint  in  his  arms.  And 
both  of  them  grown  men!  He  shook  his  head,  as  though  to 
brush  this  sentimental  desire  away.  Foolishness!  The  young 
rip  had  made  a  laughingstock  out  of  him.  Yet  here  he  was, 
ready  to  give  in  at  a  word. 

He  said :   "  I   suppose  Amos   sent  you." 

Wint  bit  his  lips,  and  his  face  set  faintly;  but  his  voice 
was  quiet  enough  when  he  answered.  "  No,  sir,"  he  said. 

"You  tell  Amos,"  Chase  exclaimed,  "that  you  can't  pull 
his  chestnuts  out  of  the  fire  for  him.  And  he'll  be  more 
anxious  to  get  around  me  later  on  than  he  is  now.  Tell  him 
that  for  me." 

Wint  shook  his  head  slowly.  "Amos  didn't  send  me,"  he 
said  again. 

"Thought  Amos  told  you  everything  to  do?"  his  father 
asked.  "  Haven't  got  a  mind  of  your  own,  have  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  Wint  told  him.     "  Yes,  I  think  I  have." 

Chase  considered,  not  looking  at  his  son.  He  could  not 
look  at  Wint  and  still  hold  himself  together.  After  a  while  he 
asked : 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want?  You  haven't  told  me  what  you 
want." 

"  I  want  to  be  friends." 

Chase  flung  that  aside  with  a  swift  gesture.  "  I  mean,  what 
do  you  want  to  get  out  of  me?  " 

"  Nothing." 

His  father  got  up,  glared  down  at  Wint  angrily.  "  Don't 
think  I'm  a  fool,  Wint,"  he  said,  in  a  rush  of  words.  "  You 
made  me  look  like  one,  but  I'm  not.  You  linked  up  with 


WINT  GOES  HOME  173 

Caretall  to  make  a  jackass  out  of  me;  you  went  out  of  your 
way  to  shame  me  by  your  own  shamelessness.  I  kicked  you 
out  with  your  tail  between  your  legs,  as  I  should  have  done 
long  before.  Now  you  come  whining  home  again.  Don't 
try  to  tell  me  you're  not  after  something.  I  know  you  are. 
If  you  don't  want  to  say  what  it  is,  don't.  That's  your  business. 
But  don't  try  to  make  me  a  fool." 

Wint  had  sworn  to  keep  his  temper;  and  he  did.  But  he  got 
to  his  feet  with  a  swift,  silent  movement  that  startled  his 
father.  And  when  Chase  broke  off,  Wint  said  steadily : 

"  I've  told  you  the  truth.  It's  true  I  misbehaved  —  badly. 
You  have  a  right  to  be  angry  with  me.  It's  true  I  did  not 
know  Caretall  planned  to  stick  me  in  over  your  head.  You 
know  that's  true.  As  far  as  .the  rest  of  it  goes  ...  I  came 
here  to-night  just  to  tell  you  that  I'm  sorry  for  —  the  things 
I  did.  And  I  want  you  to  know  I'm  sorry.  You're  my  father. 
I'd  like  to  have  the  right  to  come  to  you  for  advice;  and  I'd 
like  to  come  to  you  for  friendship,  if  nothing  more.  That's 
all.  I've  come."  He  turned  toward  the  door.  "  I've  come, 
and  I'll  go." 

When  Wint  turned  toward  the  door,  his  father's  heart  leaped 
as  though  it  would  choke  him.  He  wanted  to  cry  out  to  Wint 
not  to  go;  he  did  cry  out: 

"Wait!" 

Wint  stopped  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Haven't  you  given  me  a  right  to  think  —  to  mistrust  you?  " 
the  older  man  challenged. 

"Yes,"  said  Wint. 

"You've  shamed  me;  and  you've  come  near  breaking  your 
mother's  heart." 

Wint  found  it  hard  to  speak;  and  when  he  did  speak,  he 
said  more  than  he  had  meant  to  say.  "  I  want  to  make  amends, 
sir,"  he  told  his  father. 

"  There  are  some  hurts  that  can't  be  mended,"  said  Chase 
inexorably. 

Wint  nodded;  his  shoulders  slumped  a  little,  and  he  would 
have  turned  again  to  the  door.  "  I've  said  all  I  can  say,"  he 
explained,  "  so  I  guess  I'd  better  go." 


174  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Chase  shook  his  head.  "  See  here,  Wint,"  he  said.  "  Listen." 
There  was  not  yet  friendliness  in  his  voice;  but  there  was  a 
neutral  quality  that  held  Wint.  "  Listen,"  said  Chase.  "  I've 
learned  some  things,  too,  Wint.  It's  only  fair  to  say  that  I 
can  see,  now,  I  was  a  —  bumptious  father.  And  I've  not 
changed.  I'm  too  old  to  change.  Probably  there  were  ways 
where  I  wronged  you.  I  don't  doubt  it." 

"No,"  said  Wint.     "You  were  always  decent  to  me." 

"A  father  can  be  —  decent  to  his  son,  without  playing  fair 
with  him,"  said  his  father.  "  A  father  can  —  give  things  to 
his  son,  and  at  the  same  time  rob  him  of  better  things  by  the 
giving." 

"  You  did  your  part,  sir." 

Chase  hesitated,  eyes  on  the  floor.  "  I  did  my  best  for  you, 
Wint,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I  always  meant  to  do  what  was  —  best 
for  you.  Did  you  always  try  to  do  what  was  best  for  me?  " 

"No,"  said  Wint. 

"  I  don't  like  our  being  at  outs  any  better  than  you  do," 
Chase  went  on.  "  It  looks  bad ;  and  it's  hard  on  your  mother 
—  and  on  me.  Perhaps  on  you,  too." 

Wint  said  nothing.  He  was  thinking  that  his  father's  thinning 
hair  and  lined  face  proved  that  the  older  man  had  —  found 
it  hard  to  be  at  outs  with  his  son.  He  was  ready  to  go  a 
long  ways  to  make  it  up  to  Winthrop  Chase,  Senior. 

His  father  said  abruptly,  as  though  summarizing  what  had 
gone  before: 

"  If  you  want  to  come  home,  Wint,  I've  no  objection." 

Wint  had  not  thought  of  this  possibility,  and  he  said  so. 
"  I  did  not  come  for  that,"  he  told  the  older  man.  "I  —  just 
came  to  tell  you,  what  I  have  told  you." 

"  I'm  willing  to  accept  what  you  say  at  face  value,"  said 
his  father.  "  I  understand  you've  —  kept  sober.  I  understand 
you're  studying.  I'm  ready  to  let  you  prove  yourself." 

Wint  smiled  with  quick  satisfaction.  "  That's  a  good  deal 
for  you  to  offer  me,  sir,"  he  said  frankly. 

"  If  you  want  to  come  home,  you  can." 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  that  till  you  spoke.  I  don't  know 
what  to—" 


WINT  GOES  HOME  175 

"Your  mother  would  like  to  have  you  here,"  said  Chase 
huskily,  "  if  you  care  to  come."  It  was  as  near  a  plea  as  he 
could  bring  himself. 

Wint  nodded  with  quick  decision.  "  All  right,  sir,"  he  said. 
"  I'd  like  to  come.  I'll  bring  my  stuff  to-morrow." 

They  shook  hands  abruptly,  with  a  curt  word  that  hid  their 
feelings.  "  Good  night,"  said  Chase,  and  Wint  said  good  night, 
and  his  father  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

Wint  felt,  while  he  walked  back  to  Amos  Caretall's  house, 
as  though  he  had  been  stripped  of  a  load,  had  been  cleansed, 
had  been  made  whole.  The  world  had  never  looked  so  clean 
and  bright  to  him  before. 

A  few  minutes  after  he  left  his  home,  Mrs.  Chase  came  back 
from  the  neighbor's.  She  saw  at  once  that  something  had 
happened ;  there  was  a  change  in  her  husband.  He  was  flushed, 
and  his  eyes  were  shining.  She  asked: 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you?  Has  anything  hap 
pened?  Is  there  anything  wrong?  You  know,  I  said  to-night, 
I  told  Mrs.  Hullis,  that  I  just  had  a  feeling  something  was 
going  to  happen.  I  told  Mrs.  Hullis  I  just  knew  things  were 
going  to  go  wrong.  Oh,  it  does  look  like  we  have  more  trouble 
all  the  time." 

"  Wint  is  coming  home,  Margaret,"  said  her  husband. 

Poor,  garrulous  mother!  For  once  she  was  shocked  dumb. 
Her  eyes  widened,  and  she  dabbed  at  them  with  her  hand,  as 
though  a  cobweb  had  stuck  across  them.  She  turned  white, 
and  she  seemed  to  shrink  and  grow  old.  And  she  sat  down 
slowly  in  the  straight,  uncomfortable  chair  she  always  used, 
and  put  her  worried  old  head  down  in  her  arms  and  cried. 

Chase  touched  her  shoulder,  awkwardly  comforting  her. 

"  It's  all  right,  mother,"  he  said.     "  He's  coming  home." 

But  Mrs.  Chase  didn't  say  anything.  She  just  sat  there, 
quietly  crying.  The  tears  wet  through  her  sleeve  till  she  felt 
them  damp  upon  her  arm. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   WORD   AS   TO   HETTY 

PETER  GERGUE  wrote  to  Amos  that  Wint  had  gone 
home;  and  Amos  got  a  letter  from  Wint  with  the  same 
news,  the  same  day.  Wint's  letter  was  straightforward, 
a  little  embarrassed.  "  I  want  you  to  know,"  he  wrote,  "  that 
my  father  and  I  have  fixed  things  up.  I  am  living  at  home 
again.  That  doesn't  mean  I  don't  appreciate  your  kindness. 
But  I  thought  I  ought  to  go  home  if  they  were  willing  to  have 
me,  and  they  were." 

Peter  wrote  more  at  length.  Gergue,  uncouth  to  look  upon 
and  rude  of  speech,  was  nevertheless  an  educated  man,  and  a 
well-read  man.  There  was  nothing  bizarre  about  his  letters. 
He  wrote  that  Wint  and  his  father  had  come  together.  "  From 
what  I  hear,  Wint  went  home  and  told  Chase  he  was  sorry, 
and  so  on,"  Gergue  continued.  "  I  guess  Chase  took  on  some, 
at  that;  but  he  came  around.  He's  wrapped  up  in  Wint,  you 
know,  and  always  was.  This  has  been  a  good  thing  for  him. 
He's  human  now.  He's  not  such  a  darned  fool.  Chase,  I 
mean.  If  you  don't  look  out,  Chase  will  give  you  a  run  for 
your  money  yet. 

"  Wint's  all  right,  too.  Hasn't  touched  a  drop,  far  as  I 
can  find  out,  since  you  left.  He's  studying  law  with  old 
Hoover,  and  working  at  the  job  of  being  Mayor.  Not  setting 
the  world  on  fire,  either.  Just  the  routine.  Town's  as  wet 
as  ever,  and  looks  like  it  will  go  on  being.  I  guess  Wint  is 
worried  for  fear  folks  will  laugh  at  him  if  he  starts  a  clean-up. 
Or  maybe  he  doesn't  want  to.  Or  maybe  he  hasn't  thought 
about  it. 

"  He  and  Routt  don't  run  around  together  much.  Jack's 
been  away.  I  wrote  you  about  that.  He's  back  now.  Acts 
same  as  ever.  Mary  Dale  told  me  he  was  in  to  see  old  Kite 

176 


A  WORD  AS  TO  HETTY  177 

one  day,  and  Kite  went  up  in  the  air.  She  couldn't  hear 
what  they  were  saying.  She  thinks  Jack  is  made  and  handed 
down.  Maybe  he  is.  I  wonder  what  he  wanted  to  go  and 
see  old  V.  R.  Kite  for? 

"Kite  was  sore  at  you,  right  after  election.  Some  one  told 
him  you  was  going  to  have  Wint  clean  up  the  town.  He  made 
talk  that  he'd  hang  your  hide  if  you  did.  But  he  got  over 
that.  He's  lying  quiet.  Doing  a  good  business,  too,  I  should 
say.  There  were  seven  drunks  in  Wint's  court  last  week. 

"  I  asked  Chase  if  he  figured  to  run  against  you  next  fall. 
He  said  he  was  out  of  active  politics.  Active,  he  said. 

"  Guess  you've  seen  about  the  new  city  government  law. 
Means  we'll  have  to  vote  for  Mayor  again,  this  fall,  instead  of 
a  year  from  now.  You  figure  to  run  Wint?  I  guess  he'd 
take  it.  I  guess  he's  just  getting  rightly  interested  in  the  job. 

"  See  the  session's  likely  to  end  along  in  May.  You  figure  to 
come  home  then?  " 

Amos  read  these  letters,  read  Wint's  twice,  and  smiled  at 
it;  then  re-read  Peter  Gergue's.  That  night  at  their  hotel  he 
told  Agnes  that  Wint  had  gone  to  his  own  home.  "  Guess 
you'd  better  go  back  and  keep  Maria  company,"  he  said. 

He  half  expected  her  to  protest.  Agnes  seemed  to  be 
having  a  good  time  in  Washington;  she  was  very  gay  and 
much  abroad.  Jack  Routt  had  stopped  off  for  three  or  four 
days,  during  his  absence  from  Hardiston,  and  she  and  Jack 
had  been  constantly  together  while  he  was  in  town.  Also, 
there  had  been  other  amiable  young  men,  before  and  after 
Jack.  So  Amos  thought  Agnes  was  enjoying  herself,  and  hes 
itated  to  suggest  her  going  home.  But  he  made  up  his  mind, 
before  he  spoke,  that  she  should  go.  Amos  never  got  into 
an  argument  unless  he  intended  to  win.  This  habit  had  estab 
lished  for  him  a  certain  reputation  for  infallibility. 

But  —  Agnes  did  not  protest.  "  I'm  glad,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
sick  of  this  stupid  old  place." 

Amos,  head  on  one  side,  squinted  at  her  humorously.  "  Well, 
there  are  some  stupid  things  done  here,  anyways,"  he  agreed. 
"  When'll  you  put  out  for  Hardiston?  " 

She  planned  to  get  some  clothes.     "  I'll  be  along  in  May," 


178  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Amos  told  her.     "  Guess  you  and  Maria  can  go  it  alone  till 
then." 

Agnes  was  sure  they  could. 

In  Hardiston,  Wint's  home-going  was  a  nine  days'  wonder. 
People  made  comments  according  to  their  own  hearts.  Some 
were  glad,  some  were  amused,  some  were  caustic.  The  only 
one  to  whom  Wint  offered  any  explanation  was  old  Maria 
Hale.  The  old  negress  loved  him  like  a  son;  she  was  sorry 
to  see  him  go.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  when  she  told 
him  so;  they  ran  down  her  black  cheeks,  like  drops  of  ink 
upon  that  blackness.  It  is  easy  to  speak  openly  of  simple, 
human  emotions  to  such  folks  as  old  Maria.  Wint  said  to 
her:  "I  want  to  go  home  to  my  father  and  mother.  And 
they  want  me.  I'm  going  to  make  it  up  to  them  for  some 
of  the  things  I've  done."  He  would  not  have  said  as  much 
as  that  to  any  other  person  in  the  world.  But  there  was  no 
sense  of  strangeness  in  saying  it  to  the  old  colored  woman. 

She  bobbed  her  withered  head,  and  smiled  through  her  tears, 
and  cried : 

"  Da's  right,  Miste'  Wint.  Yore  mammy  'nd  pappy  shore  got 
to  be  proud  o'  you,  boy." 

"  I  hope  so,  Maria,"  he  told  her,  and  she  patted  his  shoulder. 

"  'Deed  and  dey  will." 

When  he  left  the  house,  she  came  to  the  door  and  told  him 
he  must  come,  now  and  then,  and  let  her  cook  him  a  good 
supper;  and  he  must  come  and  see  her.  She  would  be  lonely, 
in  that  big  house,  without  no  white  folks  around,  she  said. 
Wint  promised  to  come;  and  she  waved  her  blue  gingham 
apron  after  him  as  he  went  down  the  street. 

Muldoon  was  with  him,  scampering  around  him  and  about; 
and  old  Maria,  watching  Wint  and  the  dog,  said  to  herself  as 
they  disappeared: 

"Shore  will  miss  dat  boy;  but  ol'  M'ria  ain't  going  to  pester 
herself  about  not  seeing  dat  dog." 

She  objected  to  Muldoon  because  he  shed  hairs  on  the  rugs. 
But  she  had  tolerated  him  for  Wint's  sake.  Muldoon  thor 
oughly  understood  her  feelings;  he  used  to  sit  with  his  head 


A  WORD  AS  TO  HETTY  179 

on  one  side  and  bark  at  her  while  she  brushed  up  those  tawny 
hairs  and  scolded  at  him.  She  declared  he  was  laughing  at 
her.  More  than  once,  Wint  had  been  forced  to  make  peace 
between  them. 

Muldoon  did  not  seem  surprised  that  they  were  going  home; 
he  took  it  quite  as  a  matter  of  course.  In  fact,  it  is  doubtful 
whether  he  noticed  the  change  at  all.  Home,  to  Muldoon, 
was  where  Wint  was.  For  that  is  the  way  of  the  dog. 

So  Wint  went  home,  and  Hardiston  talked  it  over.  V.  R. 
Kite  was  glad  to  hear  it.  It  meant,  he  decided,  that  Wint  had 
shifted  allegiance  from  Amos  to  his  father;  and  while  Kite 
had  always  mistrusted  the  elder  Chase,  he  felt  they  had  a  com 
mon  bond  in  their  mutual  antagonism  toward  Amos.  Kite,  in 
the  last  few  months,  had  conceived  a  new  respect  for  Winthrop 
Chase,  Senior.  "  Chase,"  he  was  accustomed  to  say,  "  is  a  man 
of  sense.  Yes,  sir ;  a  man  of  sense." 

Joan  was  glad;  she  found  occasion  to  tell  Wint  so,  simply 
and  without  elaboration.  Wint  said  awkwardly:  "Yes,  I'm 
glad  too.  I  guess  it's  better."  And  they  never  mentioned  the 
change  again.  James  T.  Hollow,  the  little  man  whom  Caretall 
had  put  up  for  Mayor  against  Chase,  resented  Wint's  move. 
"  It's  desertion,"  he  told  Peter  Gergue.  "  He  is  deserting 
Congressman  Caretall;  and  after  all  the  Congressman  has  done 
for  him.  It's  not  the  right  thing  to  do,  Peter." 

Gergue  spat,  and  rummaged  through  his  hair.  "  Can't  always 
do  what's  right,"  he  said. 

"  I'm  afraid  Amos  will  resent  this,"  Hollow  went  on.  Peter 
said  he  shouldn't  wonder. 

"  If  he  does  object,  guess  he'll  know  how  to  show  it,"  he 
remarked.  And  Hollow  agreed,  and  added  admiringly  that 
Amos  always  seemed  to  know  just  the  right  thing  to  do. 

The  Hardiston  Sun  and  the  Journal  were  both  friendly  to 
Winthrop  Chase,  Senior;  so  Skinner  and  B.  B.  Beecham  made 
no  comment  on  Wint's  change  of  residence.  But  the  semi- 
weekly  Herald,  which  was  an  outcast  with  its  hand  against 
every  man,  politically  speaking,  said,  under  a  headline :  "  The 
Prodigal  Returns,"  that  Wint,  "  whose  break  with  the  elder 
Chase  dates  from  the  election,  when  Senior  was  made  a  laughing- 


180  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

stock  before  the  state,  has  returned  to  the  parental  rooftree. 
Please  omit  fatted  calves." 

Sam  O'Brien,  the  fat  restaurant  man,  told  Ned  Bentley  it 
was  a  good  thing.  "  Young  Wint's  a  fine  lad,"  he  said.  "  And 
he's  on  the  right  track.  Does  no  good,  never,  to  break  with 
your  blood  and  kin." 

Thus  each  took  his  own  point  of  view.  It  was  a  poor  citizen 
of  Hardiston  who  had  nothing  to  say  about  the  matter,  except 
that  those  most  concerned  had  nothing  to  say  at  all. 

The  actual  home-coming  was  simple  and  undramatic.  Wint 
sent  his  trunk  out  during  the  day  after  his  talk  with  his 
father.  In  the  late  afternoon  of  that  day,  he  happened  to  drop 
in  at  the  Post  Office  for  the  late  mail,  and  met  his  father 
there.  They  greeted  each  other  casually;  and  Wint  asked: 

"  On  your  way  home?  " 

"  I  have  to  stop  at  the  bakery." 

"  I'll  go  along,"  said  Wint.  And  he  did,  while  people 
stared  with  all  their  eyes.  Old  Mrs.  Mueller,  the  comfortable 
little  woman  who  owned  the  bakery,  and  who  was  always  asso 
ciated  in  Wint's  mind  with  the  delicious  fragrance  of  newly 
baked  bread,  lifted  both  hands  at  sight  of  them  together,  then 
dropped  her  hands  abruptly  and  wiped  them  on  her  apron 
and  served  them  without  a  word.  Before  the  door  closed 
behind  them,  they  heard  her,  behind  the  screen  in  the  rear 
of  the  shop,  volubly  telling  some  one  the  news. 

Wint  and  his  father  walked  home  without  speaking  once 
upon  the  way.  They  were  both  acutely  embarrassed  and 
uncomfortable.  It  was  a  relief  to  them  both  when  they  got 
to  the  house  and  Mrs.  Chase  met  them  in  the  hall.  Chase 
dropped  his  hand  on  his  son's  shoulder  —  the  involuntary 
touch,  like  a  caress,  brought  the  tears  to  Wint's  eyes  —  and 
he  said: 

"  Here's  Wint,  mother." 

So  Wint  took  his  mother  in  his  arms,  and  she  hugged  him, 
hard.  "  I  knew  you'd  c-c-c-come  home,  Wint,"  she  told  him, 
through  her  sobs.  "  I  was  telling  Mrs.  Hullis,  only  the  other 
day,  that  I'd  —  that  I  was  just  sure  you'd  come  home 


A  WORD  AS  TO  HETTY  181 

"  I've  come,  mother,"  said  Wint. 

"  I  knew  you'd  come,  too.  I  told  father  there  wasn't  anything 
in  you  that  would  —  I  told  him  you'd  be  sorry,  that  you'd 
come  and  tell  him  so.  Your  father's  a  good  man,  Wint.  He's 
tried  to — " 

Chase  broke  in.  People  who  wished  to  say  anything  to  her 
always  had  to  break  in  on  Mrs.  Chase.  He  said :  "  Is  supper 
ready,  mother?  Wint's  hungry,  and  so  am  I." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said.  "It's  all  ready.  Hetty's  made  two 
big  pies,  Wint.  Apples,  with  cinnamon  in  them.  Thick,  the 
way  you  like  them.  Some  of  our  apples,  from  the  big  Sheep's 
Nose  tree  in  the  back  yard.  They've  kept  wonderful  this 
winter.  We  haven't  lost  hardly  any;  and  they're  as  juicy — " 

"  Lead  me  to  'em,"  said  Wint  cheerfully.  "  Is  Hetty  a  good 
cook?  " 

"  She's  fine,"  his  mother  assured  him.  "  Hetty's  a  fine  girl. 
I  never  had  a  harder  worker.  She  don't  seem  right  happy, 
sometimes;  but  she  does  her  work,  and  that's  all  a  body  has 
a  right  to  ask.  She  — " 

Hetty  herself  came  to  the  dining-room  door,  then,  and  told 
them  that  supper  was  ready.  Wint  said :  "  Hello,  Hetty,"  and 
shook  hands  with  her.  She  said: 

"  Hello,  Wint."  The  old  note  of  reckless  courage  and  good 
nature  was  gone  from  her  voice;  and  when  he  saw  her  more 
clearly,  in  the  lighted  dining  room,  he  saw  his  mother  was  right. 
Hetty  did  not  look  happy.  Her  eyes  were  tired;  and  there 
were  shadows  beneath  them.  Her  face  was  thinner,  too.  He 
thought  she  did  not  look  well.  During  supper,  while  she  waited 
upon  them,  he  told  her  so.  "You've  been  working  too  hard, 
Hetty.  You  don't  look  like  yourself." 

She  said,  with  a  twisted  smile,  that  she  was  all  right.  There 
was  a  harsh  note  in  her  voice.  It  disturbed  Wint;  but  he  said 
no  more.  During  the  succeeding  days  and  weeks,  he  grew 
accustomed  to  her  changed  appearance.  He  no  longer  thought 
of  it. 

In  mid-April,  Jack  Routt  came  out  to  the  house  one  night  to 
see  Wint.  The  visit  seemed  casual  enough.  He  said  he  had 
thought  he  would  drop  in  for  a  smoke  and  a  talk.  He  came 


182  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

early,  only  a  few  minutes  after  supper,  and  Hetty  was  clearing 
away  the  supper  dishes.  When  she  heard  his  voice  in  the  hall, 
she  stood  very  still  for  a  moment,  looking  that  way.  Wint  did 
not  see  her.  Routt  laid  aside  his  hat,  and  then  he  saw  Hetty, 
and  he  called  to  her: 

"  Hello,  Hetty." 

She  said  evenly:  "Hello,  Jack." 

Then  Routt  and  Wint  went  up  to  Wint's  room,  and  Hetty 
stood  very  still  where  she  was  for  a  little  time,  before  she  went 
on  with  her  work. 

Upstairs,  Routt  was  saying:  "  Fd  forgotten  Hetty  was  working 
for  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Wint. 

Routt  lighted  a  cigarette.     "  She's  a  beauty,  isn't  she?  " 

Wint  nodded.  "  Not  as  pretty  as  she  was  in  school.  Remem 
ber  what  a  picture  she  used  to  be,  hair  in  a  braid,  and  those 
cream-red  cheeks  of  hers?  " 

"  Guess  I  do,"  Routt  agreed  warmly.  He  looked  at  Wint  and 
grinned.  "  Don't  know  that  I'd  want  her  living  in  the  same 
house  with  me,"  he  said. 

"Why  not?"  Wint  asked. 

"  Damned  bad  for  my  peace  of  mind." 

Wint  flushed.  He  was  a  curiously  clean,  innocent  chap  in 
some  ways.  He  felt  a  little  ashamed  by  the  mere  existence  of 
the  thought  which  had  prompted  Routt's  covert  suggestion. 
"  I'm  glad  you  dropped  in,  Jack,"  he  said.  "  Good  to  see  you 
here  again.  Like  old  times." 

If  he  had  been  less  busy  with  the  work  of  his  office,  and  with 
his  study,  Wint  might  have  thought  more  about  Hetty  during 
the  next  few  weeks.  But  —  he  didn't.  They  saw  each  other 
daily,  and  once  or  twice  he  realized  that  she  was  not  as  good- 
natured  as  she  had  been.  There  were  times  when  she  was  sul 
len.  .  .  .  For  the  most  part,  however,  he  did  not  think  of  her 
at  all. 

Now  and  then  he  had  short  letters  from  Amos.  Dry,  friendly 
letters,  with  some  impersonal  advice  sprinkled  through  them. 
In  the  third  week  in  May,  Amos  wrote  that  he  would  come  home, 
arriving  the  Thursday  following.  Wint  was  glad  he  was  going 


A  WORD  AS  TO  HETTY  183 

to  see  Amos  again.  He  had  gone  to  Amos's  house  once  or  twice 
for  the  suppers  Maria  loved  to  cook  for  him,  but  when  Agnes 
came  home,  he  gave  that  up.  Agnes  bored  him.  She  was  too 
vivacious.  Joan  was  quieter,  calmer,  infinitely  strengthening  and 
strong.  .  .  .  Jack  Routt  was  seeing  a  good  deal  of  Agnes,  he 
knew.  Routt  seemed  no  longer  bent  on  the  wooing  of  Joan, 
though  he  had  told  Wint,  months  ago,  that  he  meant  to  go  in 
and  win.  Wint  joked  him,  one  day,  about  this,  and  Routt  said 
frankly : 

"  You  and  she  have  made  up.  I'm  not  the  sort  of  a  chap  that 
trespasses.  When  I  see  I've  no  chance,  I  know  how  to  make 
the  best  of  things." 

Wint  thought  that  was  straightforward  and  decent  in  Routt. 

Amos  was  to  come  home  on  the  afternoon  train,  Thursday. 
Wednesday  evening,  Wint  spent  at  home.  Chase  and  Wint's 
mother  went  upstairs  early  to  bed,  but  Wint  was  busy  with  a 
case  book  from  Hoover's  office,  and  remained  downstairs,  the 
book  open  on  the  table,  the  lamp  beside  him. 

He  did  not  realize  that  time  was  passing.  Wint  had  a  cer 
tain  faculty  for  concentration;  and  the  dead  quiet  of  the  sleep 
ing  house  allowed  him  to  enclose  himself  in  the  world  of  his 
thoughts.  He  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing,  knew  nothing  but 
the  matter  he  was  reading.  He  did  not  hear  the  clock  strike 
midnight,  and  one  o'clock. 

But  in  the  end  he  did  hear  some  one  come  up  on  the  back 
porch.  That  would  be  Hetty,  coming  home.  He  knew  she  had 
gone  out  for  the  evening.  Listening  to  her  step,  he  wondered 
what  time  it  was,  and  looked  at  the  clock  and  saw  that  it  was 
within  twenty  minutes  of  two  in  the  morning. 

"Great  Scott!"  he  said,  half  aloud.  "As  late  as  that?" 
And  then,  curiously,  "  What's  Hetty  doing  out  this  time  of 
night?  "  He  listened;  and  he  could  hear  no  more  footsteps,  but 
he  did  catch  the  murmur  of  a  man's  voice.  Indistinguish 
able.  .  .  .  Then  Hetty's  in  a  harsh,  mirthless  laugh.  He  got 
up  abruptly  and  went  out  toward  the  kitchen.  He  could  not 
have  told  what  impulse  sent  him. 

When  he  opened  the  door,  Hetty  was  standing  on  the 
porch,  facing  him.  There  was  no  one  with  her.  Wint  said: 


184  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"Alone,  Hetty?  Time  you  were  getting  in."  He  was  good- 
natured. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  flushed,  and 
her  eyes  were  reddened,  and  her  moutL  was  open.  Her  hair  was 
a  little  dishevelled.  She  looked  at  hjn,  and  laughed,  and  said 
loosely: 

"  Oh,  you  Wint.     Wint's  caught  me.     Joke  on  me." 

He  saw  that  she  had  been  drinking,  and  he  was  inexpress 
ibly  sorry  and  disturbed.  Not  that  he  was  a  stranger  to  drink; 
not  that  he  frowned  upon  it  from  high,  moral  grounds.  But 
—  Hetty  had  been  so  beautiful,  and  so  youthful,  and  so  gay. 
She  was  so  hideously  soiled  now.  He  was  not  disgusted;  he 
was  infinitely  sorry  for  her. 

Hetty  laughed  crackingly.  "  Poor  oF  Wint.  'Member  when 
you  came  home  so?  Hetty  put  Wint  t'  bed.  Now  Wint'll 
have  to  put  Hetty  to  bed.  Mus'n't  let  Chase  know,  Wint.  He's 
a  moral  man." 

Wint  said  gently:  "  Of  course  not,  Hetty."  He  took  her  arm. 
"  Come  in." 

She  was  unsteady  on  her  feet;  and  it  seemed  hard  for  her 
to  keep  her  eyes  open.  He  was  afraid  she  would  drop  in  a 
sodden  slumber  before  he  could  get  her  upstairs.  This  fear 
haunted  him  during  the  moments  that  followed;  it  marked  them 
in  his  memory.  He  was  never  going  to  be  able  to  forget  this 
business  of  helping  Hetty  slowly  up  the  back  stairs,  and  up  to 
her  third-floor  room.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  minutes;  but 
they  were  fearfully  long.  And  he  was  afraid  she  would  go 
to  sleep;  and  he  was  afraid  she  would  laugh.  Once  he  heard 
the  laughter  coming,  in  her  throat,  in  time  to  press  his  hand 
over  her  mouth;  and  he  could  never  forget  the  feeling  of  her 
loose,  working  lips  beneath  his  hand.  He  was  sweating  and 
sick. 

He  got  her  to  her  room  without  turning  on  the  lights.  He 
got  her  to  the  bed  and  she  lay  down  and  seemed  instantly 
asleep.  He  started  for  the  door;  and  she  called  him  back. 

"  Shame,  Wint,"  she  said  mournfully.  "  Ain't  going  to  take 
off  my  shoes?  I  took  off  your  shoes,  Wint.  I  took  off  your 
shoes." 


A  WORD  AS  TO  HETTY  185 

She  wore  low  shoes,  little  more  than  pumps.  He  thanked 
his  fates  for  that,  while  his  fingers  fumbled  for  the  laces.  A 
tug  loosed  the  knots,  the  slippers  came  off  easily.  Hetty  was 
snoring  before  he  was  done,  and  he  left  her  so. 

He  could  hear  her  snoring,  after  he  got  out  into  the  hall. 
It  seemed  to  him  his  father,  asleep  in  the  front  of  the  house  on 
the  second  floor,  must  hear.  He  went  down  from  the  third 
floor  to  the  second  on  tiptoe  with  excruciating  care.  And  on 
down  the  back  stairs  to  put  out  the  lights,  and  put  away  his 
book,  and  come  back  up  to  his  own  bed. 

He  could  not  sleep  for  a  long  time.  He  was  obsessed  by  a 
strange  and  persistent  feeling  of  responsibility  for  Hetty.  It 
was  as  though  he  felt  himself  to  blame  for  this  thing  that  had 
come  to  her. 

Jack  Routt  would  have  laughed  at  such  a  state  of  mind;  but 
it  was  very  real  to  Wint. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ORDERS   FOR  RADABAUGH 

WINT  had  a  talk  with  his  father  next  morning;  that 
is  to  say,  the  morning  of  the  day  Amos  was  to 
come  home.  He  told  the  elder  Chase  that  Amos 
was  coming. 

Chase  nodded.     "  I  heard  so,"  he  agreed. 

"  I  want  you  to  understand  my  relations  with  him,"  said 
Wint. 

There  was  a  time  when  the  older  man  would  have  said  that 
a  son  of  his  could  have  no  relations  with  Amos  Caretall.  But 
Winthrop  Chase,  Senior,  had  been  learning  wisdom,  and  a  cer 
tain  tolerance.  Also,  he  had  no  wish  to  lose  Wint  again.  He 
told  himself  this  was  because  Wint's  mother  was  growing  old, 
would  miss  him. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  are  they?  " 

Wint  had  been  dreading  what  his  father  would  say;  he  had 
been  afraid  of  anger,  of  abuse.  He  was  immensely  relieved 
at  the  older  man's  tone. 

"  Simply  this,"  he  said.  "  He  put  me  where  I  am.  That 
was  tough  on  you;  but  I  think  it  has  been  good  for  me.  It's 
a  strange  thing  to  have  the  feeling  that  you  can  give  men  orders 
which  they  must  obey ;  and  that  you  have  a  —  a  sort  of  con 
trol  over  them.  Dad,  do  you  realize  that  I  have  to  send  men 
to  jail  every  little  while?  It's  a  pretty  serious  thing  to  send 
a  man  to  jail,  when  you  know  you  ought  to  be  in  jail  your 
self,  in  a  way.  I've  done  some  thinking  about  it;  so  you  see, 
it's  been  good  for  me.  It  never  hurts  a  man  to  think. 

"  The  whole  thing  is,  Amos  has  done  me  a  good  turn,  sir. 
I  can't  help  feeling  grateful  to  him.  Can't  help  feeling  he's 
been  a  good  friend  to  me.  And  —  I  want  to  be  friends  with 
him.  And  I  want  you  to  know  there's  no  disloyalty  to  you  in 
this  friendship." 

Chase  considered  for  a  little;  then  he  said  quietly:  "You 

186 


ORDERS  FOR  RADABAUGH  187 

know,  Amos  played  false  with  me.  Deceived  me  —  deliber 
ately.  And  tricked  me." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Wint.  "  It  was  politics;  and  in  a  way,  it 
was  dirty  politics.  But  —  he's  been  square  with  me." 

"  I'm  not  sure,"  said  Chase,  "  that  the  whole  business  has 
not  turned  out  pretty  well,  for  you.  For  your  sake,  I'm  not 
sorry."  His  voice  stirred  and  quickened.  "  But  by  Heaven, 
Wint,  Amos  is  no  friend  of  mine!  And  some  day  I  mean  to 
break  him." 

Wint  said :  "  That's  all  right.  It's  a  fair  game  between  you. 
But  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  taking  sides  with  him." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?  "  Chase  asked. 

"  I  thought  of  meeting  his  train,"  Wint  told  him.  "  And  — 
he  asked  me  to  have  supper  with  them  to-night,  to  talk  things 
over.  I  thought  I  would." 

"Suppose  I  tell  you  not  to?  " 

Wint  said  wistfully :  "  I  hope  you  won't,  sir,  because  — 
I'm  going  to." 

Chase  nodded.  "  I  suppose  so,"  he  agreed.  "  Well,  Wint 
—  you're  a  grown  man.  I  shall  not  try  to  treat  you  —  like  a 
boy.  Not  again.  I'm  leaving  it  to  you,  Wint." 

Wint  said  quickly :  "  I'm  glad."  He  got  up  and,  without 
cither's  suggestion,  they  shook  hands,  and  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes  for  a  moment. 

"All  right,"  said  Chase.  "I'll  tell  your  mother  not  to 
expect  you  for  supper." 

"  Try  to  make  her  understand,  will  you?  " 

His  father  smiled.  "Your  mother  doesn't  always  under 
stand,"  he  said.  "  But  —  she  loves  you,  Wint." 

"  I   know.  . 

He  hesitated,  wondering  whether  he  should  tell  his  father 
about  Hetty.  She  had  been  sullen,  avoiding  his  eyes,  when  she 
served  breakfast.  His  father,  or  his  mother,  had  a  right  to 
know. 

Yet  Wint  could  not  bring  himself  to  tell  them.  There  would 
be  no  charity  in  them  for  the  girl.  And  Wint  had  an  infinite 
deal  of  tolerance  for  her.  Give  her  a  chance.  He  would  not 
tell  them.  Not  yet,  at  least.  It  could  wait  for  a  while. 


188  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

He  was  conscious  of  a  need  to  tell  some  one.  Not  for  the 
sake  of  betraying  Hetty,  but  to  find  some  balm  for  his  own 
soul.  That  sense  of  responsibility  persisted;  he  could  not 
analyze  it,  but  he  could  not  shake  it  off.  A  strangely  haunt 
ing  feeling,  this.  ...  It  troubled  him  acutely.  His  thoughts 
dwelt  on  it  all  that  day. 

There  was  a  drunken  man  in  the  Mayor's  court  that  morning. 
An  old  man.  Wint  knew  him.  He  was  that  man  who  had 
embraced  Wint  in  the  office  of  the  Weaver  House,  on  the 
morning  after  the  election.  The  incident  seemed  to  have  hap 
pened  infinitely  long  ago;  yet  it  was  horribly  vivid  in  Wint's 
memory  still.  The  man  had  treated  him  like  a  boon  com 
panion,  a  good,  understanding  comrade.  He  had  assumed  a 
fellowship  between  them;  the  fellowship  of  drink.  The 
shame  of  it  was  that  his  assumption  had  been  justified.  .  .  . 

The  man  reminded  Wint  of  the  incident,  this  day  in  court. 
He  was  miserably  sober  when  they  brought  him  in,  miserably 
sober,  and  trembling  to  be  drunk  again.  "  Don't  be  hard  on  a 
fellow,  your  Honor,"  he  pleaded  with  Wint.  "  You  know  how 
it  is.  You  remember.  That  day;  day  after  you  was  elected. 
You're  a  good  pal,  Mayor,  your  Honor.  Don't  go  to  be  too 
hard  on  a  man." 

He  had  been  in  court  before;  Wint  had  fined  him,  had  sent 
him  to  jail.  The  futility  of  these  measures  came  home  crush  - 
ingly  to  Wint  just  now.  The  man  was  not  helped  by  them; 
he  was  as  bad  as  ever.  Worse,  perhaps.  A  revolt  against  this 
whole  system  of  punishment  boiled  up  in  Wint.  He  said,  with 
out  considering: 

"All  right.     Try  to  let  it  alone.     Get  out." 

Young  Foster,  the  city  solicitor,  looked  surprised  and  pained 
as  though  Wint  had  insulted  him.  Marshal  Jim  Radabaugh 
grinned  good-naturedly.  The  man  himself  crowded  up  to 
Wint's  desk  with  his  thanks,  and  poured  them  out,  and  at  last 
whispered  humbly: 

"You  haven't  got  a  dime  to  give  a  man,  have  you,  Mayor, 
your  Honor?  I'm  shaking  for  a  drink.  You  know  how  that 
is.  Just  a  dime,  your  Honor." 

Wint  gave  him  a  quarter,  and  Foster  said:     "Well,  I'll  be 


ORDERS  FOR  RADABAUGH  189 

damned !  "  The  man  went  out,  calling  blessings  on  Wint's  head. 
Foster  demanded:  "What's  the  idea,  anyway,  Whit?  He's  a 
common  souse." 

"  I'm  sick  of  sending  him  to  jail,"  said  Wint  hotly.  "  I'm 
not  going  to  do  it  any  more.  What  good  does  it  do?  " 

"  Keeps  him  sober,  anyway.  You  as  good  as  told  him  to  go 
and  get  drunk  again." 

"Well,  let  him,"  said  Wint.  "What  else  is  there  for  him 
to  do?  " 

"  Go  to  work." 

"  He  looks  fit  for  work,  doesn't  he?  " 

"  Whose  fault  is  that?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Wint,  "whose  fault  is  it?  Whose  fault  that 
he  is  what  he  is?  Whose  fault  that  he  can  buy  a  drink  in  a 
dry  town?  Whose  fault  is  it,  Foster,  anyway?  " 

Foster  laughed.     "Well,  what's  the  answer?  " 

Wint  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  eyes  down,  considering.  He 
was  thinking  of  Hetty;  he  could  not  help  it.  And  the  end  of 
his  thinking  was  this.  He  looked  at  Marshal  Jim  Radabaugh, 
and  said  evenly: 

"Mister  marshal,  don't  arrest  any  more  men  in  Hardiston 
for  being  drunk  unless  they  —  commit  other  crimes."  There 
was  a  bite  in  the  last  word. 

But  Jim  Radabaugh  only  grinned  and  said :  "  All  right, 
you're  boss." 

Foster  started  to  protest.     Wkit  asked:  "Any  more  cases?  " 

"  No.     But  damn  it  all,  Wint!     Listen  — " 

"I  don't  want  to  listen,"  Wint  told  him.  "I'm  through. 
Court's  adjourned.  Don't — " 

"You're  turning  the  town  over  to  the  bums,"  Foster  pro 
tested. 

"  They  can't  run  it  any  worse,"  said  Wint,  and  took  his  hat 
and  departed.  Foster  swore.  Marshal  Jim  Radabaugh 
strolled  up  to  the  Bazaar  to  tell  V.  R.  Kite  this  interesting 
news. 

Wint  met  Amos  at  the  train,  and  Amos  shook  him  by  the 
hand  and  looked  him  in  the  eye  and  nodded  with  good-natured 
approval.  "  Coming  home  for  supper?  "  he  asked. 


190  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  Surely.     I  wouldn't  miss  Maria's  supper." 

"  You  might  say  you  wouldn't  miss  us,  too,"  Agnes  reminded 
him,  clinging  to  her  father's  arm.  "  Mightn't  he,  dad?  " 

"  Say  it,  Wint,"  Amos  suggested.  "  Only  way  to  have  peace 
in  the  family." 

So  they  let  Agnes  have  her  way,  and  she  made  the  most  of 
it.  Peter  Gergue  came  for  supper,  too;  and  Agnes  sat  at  one 
end  of  the  table,  presiding  over  the  coffee  urn  with  a  pretty 
assumption  of  the  role  of  matron.  She  did  most  of  the  talk 
ing.  The  men  were  too  busy  with  Maria's  fried  chicken.  But 
afterward,  when  they  were  done,  Amos  and  Peter  and  Wint 
went  into  the  sitting  room,  and  Agnes  said  she  wasn't  going  to 
sit  and  listen  to  them  talk  politics.  She  was  going  to  the 
moving-picture  show.  Amos  told  her  to  run  along.  He  and 
Peter  shaved  their  plugs  of  tobacco,  and  crumbled  the  slices, 
and  filled  their  pipes;  and  Wint  grinned  at  the  exactness  with 
which  Peter  copied  Amos's  procedure.  He  had  filled  his  own 
pipe  in  more  conventional  fashion,  from  his  pouch,  and  was 
smoking  while  they  were  still  rubbing  the  sliced  tobacco  between 
their  palms. 

When  the  pipes  were  all  going,  Amos,  as  was  his  custom, 
sat  in  silence,  waiting  for  some  one  else  to  speak  first.  Wint 
imitated  him.  And  Gergue,  who  did  not  like  silences,  said  at 
last: 

"  Well,  Amos,  you're  home." 

"Looks  that  way,"  Amos  agreed. 

"  Hardiston  ain't  changed." 

"  No,  Hardiston  don't  change." 

"  Same  old  town." 

"  Yeah,  same  old  town." 

Silence  settled  down  upon  them  again.  Wint  was  thinking 
of  Hetty.  She  had  been  in  his  mind  all  day;  she  and  the 
miserable  man  who  had  faced  him  in  the  court  that  morning. 
They  were  somehow  linked  in  his  thoughts;  linked  in  a  fashion 
that  accused  him.  Accused  him,  Wint  Chase,  of  responsibility 
for  them.  He  groped  for  understanding,  trying  to  guess  why 
this  was  so. 


ORDERS  FOR  RADABAUGH  191 

Amos,  abruptly,  looked  at  Peter  Gergue.  "Pete,"  he  said, 
"I  want  to  talk  to  Wint." 

Peter  got  up  instantly.  "  Why,  sure,  Amos,"  he  agreed.  "  I 
got  to  see  some  men,  anyways." 

"Be  in  your  office  in  the  morning?  "  Amos  asked. 

"  Guess  likely." 

"  I'll  drop  in." 

Peter  nodded,  and  Amos  went  with  him  to  the  door.  When 
he  came  back,  Wint  was  still  sitting,  nursing  his  pipe.  Amos 
looked  at  him,  sat  down,  looked  at  Wint  again;  and  at  last 
asked : 

"  We-ell,  Wint,  how's  tricks?  " 

Wint  said,  after  a  little  consideration,  that  he  guessed  tricks 
were  all  right. 

"Like  being  Mayor?" 

"  It's  —  sobering,"  Wint  told  him.  "  It's  a  good  deal  of  a 
job.  For  me." 

"Tell  you,"  said  Amos.  "Any  job's  a  good  deal  of  a  job; 
if  a  man  takes  it  serious." 

Wint  laughed.  "  Shouldn't  wonder  if  I  took  this  too 
seriously,"  he  said. 

"  Can't  be  done,"  Amos  reassured  him.  "  Any  man  that  has 
to  look  out  for  other  men  has  a  serious  job." 

Wint  said  nothing  to  that.  He  was  wondering  if  it  were  a 
part  of  his  job  to  look  out  for  Hetty,  and  that  drunken  man  of 
the  court. 

"  That's  what  being  Mayor  amounts  to,"  Amos  remarked. 
"  Found  it  so,  haven't  you?  " 

Wint  stirred  in  his  chair.  "  Amos,"  he  said,  "  a  thing  hap 
pened  last  night.  I  feel  like  telling  you  about  it.  Don't  need 
to  ask  you  not  to  pass  it  on." 

Amos  tilted  his  head  on  one  side,  squinting  at  Wint  wisely. 
"That's  all  right,"  he  said.  "Tell  on." 

The  permission  relieved  Wint  immensely;  he  felt  as  though 
he  had  been  loosed  from  bondage.  He  told,  in  a  swift  rush 
of  words,  the  story  of  Hetty.  How  she  had  come  home  last 
night.  He  went  on,  told  about  the  man  in  court  that  day.  He 


192  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

told  Amos  what  had  happened,  what  he  had  done,  the  order  he 
had  given  Radabaugh. 

Amos  looked  at  him  curiously.  "  Told  Jim  that,  did 
you?  " 

"Yes." 

"  What  did  Foster  say?  " 

Wint  grinned.     "  Said  he'd  be  damned." 

"  I  reckon  not,"  Amos  decided,  after  a  moment's  thought. 
"  He  won't  be.  He's  all  right." 

"  He  thought  I  was  foolish.     I  suppose  I  was." 

Amos  said  slowly :  "  Depends  on  why  you  did  it,  Wint. 
Depends  on  what  was  in  your  mind." 

That  set  Wint  thinking  again,  trying  to  decide  just  what  had 
been  in  his  mind.  Amos  smoked  steadily,  not  looking  at  Wint 
at  all.  At  last  he  said  again: 

"  Yes,  sir,  Wint.     Depends  what  was  in  your  mind." 

Wint  assented  thoughtfully.     "  I  suppose  so,"  he  said. 

Amos  tried  waiting  in  silence  for  him  to  go  on;  but  Wint 
was  busy  thinking;  he  beat  Amos  at  his  own  game  without 
knowing  it.  He  drove  Caretall  to  ask: 

"  What  was  in  your  mind,  Wint?  " 

The  boy  groped  for  words;  he  flushed  uneasily,  as  though 
afraid  of  being  laughed  at.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  had  a  fool 
sort  of  a  feeling  that  I  was  to  blame." 

Amos  nodded  slowly.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  that's  what  I 
meant  —  in  a  way  —  when  I  said  you  had  a  job  that  meant 
taking  care  of  folks.  Hetty,  and  that  old  rip  —  they're  folks, 
like  any  one  else,  like  as  not." 

"  Yes,  they  are,"  Wint  agreed. 

"  Taking  oare  of  them ;  that's  your  j  ob,  Wint.  Maybe  that 
just  means  fining  them,  and  sending  them  to  jail." 

"  I  tell  you  I  won't  do  that  again,"  Wint  exclaimed.  "  I  told 
you  the  order  I  gave  Jim  Radabaugh." 

"We-ell,"  said  Amos  slowly.  "That's  all  right.  Far  as 
it  goes.  Might  go  farther." 

"  Farther?'    How?  "  Wint  demanded.     "  What  can  I  do?  " 

"  I  hadn't  anything  pa'ticular  in  mind,"  Amos  said  care 
lessly.  "  Hadn't  a  thing  in  mind."  He  looked  at  Wint  side- 


ORDERS  FOR  RADABAUGH  193 

wise.  Wint's  face  was  white  with  the  intensity  of  his  thought. 
Amos  said  slowly:  "Looks  like  a  shame  to  have  drunk  folks 
around  in  as  pretty  a  town  as  Hardiston." 

"  A  shame?  "  Wint  cried.     "  It's  damnable." 

"  Guess  most  folks  don't  like  it,"  Amos  reminded  him. 
"  Town  voted  dry.  Guess  that  shows  most  folks  wanted  it  to  be 
dry,  don't  it?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  does,"  Wint  agreed.  Amos  looked  at  him; 
and  Wint  moved  abruptly  in  his  chair,  and  his  eyes  began  to 
flame.  The  puzzle  cleared;  he  began  to  understand.  He  began 
to  understand  himself,  his  own  thoughts,  his  feeling  that  he  was 
to  blame  for  —  Hetty.  He  began  to  understand,  and  his  lips 
set.  He  said,  half  aloud:  "By  God,  it  means  a  fight!  A  hell 
of  a  fight  in  Hardiston." 

"Fight?"  Amos  asked  casually,  as  though  he  were  think 
ing  of  something  else.  "  I  like  a  fight,  I'd  like  to  see  a  gaod 
one."  And  he  added,  after  a  moment :  "  I  might  take  a  hand ; 
if  it  weren't  a  private  fight,  or  something." 

Wint  sat  forward  in  his  chair,  looked  around  the  room. 
"Where's  the  telephone?"  he  asked. 

"Telephone?  "  said  Amos.     "Why,  in  the  hall." 

Wint  got  up  and  went  swiftly  out  into  the  hall.  Amos 
listened;  and  he  smiled,  with  a  twinkling  anticipation  in  his 
eyes.  He  heard  Wint  ask  the  operator  to  locate  Jim  Radabaugh 
and  get  him  on  the  'phone.  Then  Wint  came  back  and  stood 
in  the  doorway,  waiting  while  she  signaled  for  the  marshal 
with  the  red  light  that  was  set  on  a  pole  in  the  heart  of  the 
town.  Amos  did  not  turn  around  to  look  at  Wint.  Wint  did 
not  move. 

After  a  while,  the  'phone  rang  twice.  "That's  us,"  said 
Amos,  still  without  turning.  "  Our  ring  is  two." 

Wint  went  to  the  'phone.  Radabaugh,  at  the  other  end,  said: 
"  This  is  the  marshal.  Who's  talking?  " 

"Wint.     Mayor  Chase." 

"Oh!     All  right,  Mister  Mayor.     What's  on  your  mind?" 

Wint  said  evenly:  "I've  instructions  for  you.  If  you  are 
willing  to  carry  them  out,  all  right.  If  not,  resign,  and  I'll 
fill  your  place  to-morrow." 


194  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  You're  the  boss,"  said  Radabaugh  amiably.  "  I  do  what 
you  say." 

"  Either  do  what  I  say  or  resign,"  said  Wint  again.  "  I 
want  you  to  get  busy  and  break  up  the  liquor  business  in 
Hardiston." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  Wint  heard  the  marshal  whistle 
softly  under  his  breath.  Then  Radabaugh  asked: 

"In   earnest?" 

"  Absolutely.  I  want  the  town  cleaned  up.  I  want  it  bone 
dry.  Will  you  take  the  job?  Or  quit?  " 

"  Why,"  said  Radabaugh,  "  I'll  just  naturally  take  the  job. 
I've  been  a-wishing  I  had  something  to  do." 

Wint  spoke  a  word  or  two  more,  hung  up,  and  came  back 
to  Amos.  He  sat  down  without  speaking.  After  a  little,  Amos 
asked,  looking  at  Wint  sidewise: 

"  Going  through  with  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Wint.  There  was  more  resolution  in  the  simple 
word  than  there  would  have  been  in  lengthier  protestations. 

"  We-ell,  all  I  can  say,"  Amos  drawled,  "  is  that  this  here 
is  going  to  make  an  awful  difference  to  V.  R.  Kite." 

It  did:  a  difference  to  Kite,  and  to  Wint's  father,  and  to 
Jack  Routt;  and  a  difference  to  Wint  himself.  A  difference 
to  Hardiston,  too. 

When  Wint  went  home,  at  ten  o'clock,  the  word  was  already 
humming  around  the  town. 

END   OF   BOOK   THREE 


BOOK  IV 
LINE  OF  BATTLE 


CHAPTER  I 

MARSHAL  JIM   RADABAUGH 

JIM  RADABAUGH,  the  city  marshal,  that  is  to  say,  the  chief 
of  police,  was  a  man  not  without  honor  in  Hardiston. 
A  good  fellow,  and  a  cool,  brave  officer.  That  he  was  a 
good  fellow,  every  one  who  knew  him  could  attest.  He  had  no 
enemies.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  be  arrested  by  him.  There  was 
an  equable  good  nature  in  the  man,  and  a  drawling  humor  in 
the  very  tones  of  his  voice  which  inspired  good  nature  and  good 
humor  in  return.  He  was  a  lean  man,  lazily  erect,  as  though 
it  were  too  much  trouble  to  be  stoop-shouldered.  Black  hair, 
black  eyes.  ...  A  chronic  bulge  in  his  cheek  that  housed  the 
wad  of  tobacco  which  he  kept  there.  An  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  intricacies  of  big-league  baseball  as  set  forth  in  the 
public  prints;  a  repository  of  racing  lore;  a  good  pool  player 
and  a  redoubtable  hand  at  poker.  All  in  all,  a  good  man  to 
keep  the  peace  according  to  his  lights. 

People  said  he  was  easy-going,  but  every  one  knew  he  was 
no  slacker  of  duty  or  of  obligation.  Three  years  back  —  that 
was  before  they  elected  him  marshal  —  he  had  been  under  fire 
for  the  first  time.  It  was  on  the  interurban  street-car  line 
that  ran  from  Hardiston  "  up  the  crick."  Radabaugh  sat  in 
the  front  of  the  car,  facing  the  rear;  and  a  man  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  car  ran  amuck  with  a  revolver,  shooting  wildly. 
He  killed  one  man,  wounded  another,  in  the  seconds  it  took 
Radabaugh  to  charge  down  the  aisle  and  overwhelm  him.  The 
conductor  of  the  car,  at  the  moment,  was  hiding  under  a  rear 
seat;  and  the  motorman  had  jammed  off  his  power  and  jumped 
overboard,  into  a  ditch  that  had  more  water  in  it  than  he  had 
counted  on.  Radabaugh  knocked  the  man  over  with  a  cuff  of 
his  fist,  and  pinned  him,  and  took  his  gun  away. 

His  friends  told  him  he  ought  to  run  for  office  after  that.     He 

197 


198  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

said  he  didn't  mind.  His  business  was  not  an  exacting  one. 
He  and  his  brother  were  tailors,  and  his  brother  could  handle 
the  bulk  of  their  work  anyway.  So  Jim  ran  for  marshal,  and 
was  elected.  Thereafter,  when  he  was  not  occupied  with  his 
official  duties,  he  used  to  drop  in  at  the  tailor  shop  to  help 
things  along  there.  It  was  no  sight  for  timid  customers,  try 
ing  on  their  new  suits  while  Jim's  brother  chalked  them  in 
mysterious  places,  to  see  Jim  come  in  and  go  to  work.  He 
always  came  in  casually,  spat  in  the  appointed  direction,  then 
produced  from  one  pocket  and  another  his  gun,  his  hand 
cuffs,  and  his  club.  He  was  accustomed  to  lay  these  on  one 
of  the  bolts  of  cloth  which  stocked  the  shelves,  then  seat  him 
self  cross-legged  on  the  table,  with  a  little  cloth  apron  on  his 
knees,  and  pick  up  the  first  task  that  came  to  hand. 

His  duties  as  marshal  were  not  pressing,  for  Hardiston  folk 
commit  few  crimes,  and  usually  commit  those  away  from  home. 
When  he  was  wanted  during  the  day,  the  telephone  operator 
called  the  shop.  If  she  wanted  to  locate  him  after  dusk,  she 
flashed  a  signal  light  which  called  him  to  the  telephone.  For 
the  most  part,  his  time  was  his  own. 

And  this  is  not  to  say  that  Jim  Radabaugh  had  nothing  to 
do.  There  was  the  case,  for  example,  of  the  darky  who  was 
wanted  for  burglary  in  one  of  the  cities  in  the  southern  part 
of  the  state.  Jim  got  word  that  he  was  drinking  in  a  hovel 
down  by  the  creek,  with  two  other  men.  So  he  went  down 
there  and  strolled  in  and  told  the  man  he  was  wanted.  Jim's 
hands,  at  the  moment,  were  in  his  coat  pockets.  The  darky 
pulled  a  revolver,  jammed  it  against  Jim's  breast,  and  pulled 
the  trigger.  Nothing  happened;  that  is  to  say,  nothing  hap 
pened  to  Jim.  The  darky's  gun  did  not  explode,  but  Jim's 
did.  It  burned  a  hole  in  his  pocket,  and  it  bored  a  hole  in  the 
darky,  neatly  amidships,  in  such  fashion  that  there  was  no 
further  occasion  to  trouble  with  that  man.  His  body,  laid  open 
with  two  slashes  of  the  coroner's  knife  that  intersected  on  the 
bullet  hole,  was  on  view  for  a  day  or  two  in  the  undertaker's 
back  room;  and  small  boys  went  in  to  see  it.  They  thought 
Jim  Radabaugh  was  rather  more  than  mortal,  after  that. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  had  been  a  narrow  squeak  for  Jim,  as 


MARSHAL  JIM  RADABAUGH        199 

an  examination  of  the  darky's  weapon  proved.  That  un 
fortunate  man  had  apparently  been  unable  to  buy  revolver 
ammunition,  so  he  had  bought  rifle  cartridges  of  the  desired 
caliber  and  whittled  off  the  bullets  to  make  them  fit  into  the 
cylinder  of  the  revolver.  Perhaps  he  had  hurried  with  this  bit 
of  preparation;  at  any  rate,  he  left  one  of  the  bullets  too  long, 
and  when  he  pulled  the  trigger,  the  bullet  caught  and  prevented 
the  cylinder  from  turning.  Which  undoubtedly  saved  Jim 
Radabaugh's  life. 

People  agreed  that  was  a  good  thing;  for  Jim  was  a  good 
fellow.  Wint's  orders  to  clean  up  the  town  interested  him. 
They  meant  some  measure  of  excitement,  and  he  liked  excitement. 
He  told  two  or  three  people,  that  night,  and  they  spread  the 
news.  But  Jim  took  no  official  step  till  next  day.  Then  he  set 
out  to  serve  notice  on  those  most  concerned. 

One  of  these  people  most  concerned  was  a  man  named 
Lutcher.  His  place  of  business  was  on  the  second  floor  of  a 
building  that  fronted  on  one  of  the  alleys  in  the  heart  of  town. 
You  climbed  an  outside  stair  from  the  alley  to  Lutcher's  door. 
Wint  and  Jack  Routt  went  there,  that  night  of  Amos  Caretall's 
first  home-coming,  from  their  interrupted  billiard  game. 
Lutcher's  place  was  perhaps  the  best  in  town;  that  is  to  say,  the 
surroundings  were  least  sordid,  and  the  wares  he  sold  most 
meritorious.  He  was  financed,  of  course,  by  Kite. 

Radabaugh  went  there  first.  He  had  been  there  before,  in 
his  personal  capacity.  He  had  no  scruples  about  such  visits. 
Lutcher  was  a  lawbreaker,  of  course;  but  the  lawbreaking 
was  tacitly  accepted.  There  had  been  no  orders  against  it. 
And  Jim  Radabaugh  had  no  objection  to  a  drink  now  and  then. 
So  he  climbed  the  stairs  from  the  alley  to  Lutcher's  door,  and 
knocked,  and  Lutcher  opened  the  door  and  admitted  him. 
This  Lutcher  was  not  a  bad  fellow,  say  what  you  will  of  his 
business.  A  big,  bald  man  with  a  husky,  whispering  voice,  and 
a  habit  of  appearing  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  He  wore  rather  at 
tractive  silk  shirts,  chosen  with  no  mean  taste;  and  his  vests 
were  often  remarked.  Also,  he  smoked  good  cigars,  instead 
of  the  well-nigh  universal  stogie  of  Hardiston;  and  he  gave 
these  cigars  freely  to  his  regular  customers. 


200  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Lutcher  had  not  heard  the  news,  the  night  before.  So  he 
greeted  Marshal  Radabaugh  good-naturedly,  and  told  him  it 
was  pretty  early  in  the  day  for  a  drink,  and  that  he  would  lose 
his  reputation  if  he  came  here  by  daylight  in  this  fashion. 
Jim  laughed  at  that,  and  asked  cheerfully  whether  Lutcher  had 
a  good  stock  on  hand. 

"  Ice  chest  full,  and  a  sawdust  bin  packed  with  bottles," 
Lutcher  told  him.  "What's  yours?  The  same." 

"Any  reserve  supply?"  Radabaugh  asked.  Lutcher  said 
there  was  nt>  reserve;  that  he  was  expecting  a  shipment  in  a 
day  or  two.  Radabaugh  nodded. 

"  Got  bad  news  for  you,  Lutch,"  he  said. 

Lutcher  beamed.  He  was  always  an  amiable  man.  "  Can't 
make  me  feel  bad,  Jim,"  he  said.  "  Shoot  the  wad." 

"  Going  to  close  you  up,"  said  Radabaugh. 

Lutcher  laughed.  "  Fat  chance,  I  guess.  What're  you  try 
ing  to  do?  Work  me  for  a  snifter.  All  right.  Say  the  word." 

"  Straight  goods,"  Radabaugh  assured  him.  "  Mayor's 
orders." 

"Wint's  orders?  That's  a  hot  one."  Lutcher  chuckled,  his 
gay  vest  heaving  with  his  mirth.  "  Why,  Wint's  one  of  my 
regular  customers." 

"Ain't  been  in  lately,  has  he?  "  Radabaugh  suggested. 

"No,  not  just  lately.     It  wouldn't  look  right." 

Radabaugh  nodded.  "  He's  in  earnest,  I'd  say,"  he  told 
Lutcher.  "  Anyway,  I  do  what  he  says.  He  didn't  say  anything 
about  confiscating  the  stuff,  or  destroying  it.  Said  to  stop  the 
sale.  So  I've  got  to  seal  you  up,  Lutch." 

Lutcher  had  been  losing  some  of  his  amiability.  He  told 
Radabaugh  so.  "  I'm  a  good-natured  man,"  he  said.  "  But 
this  is  no  joke." 

"No,"  said  Jim.     "It's  no  joke.     Where's  your  ice  box?" 

"  What  in  time  do  you  think  you're  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Put  a  seal  on  it,  and  on  that  bin  of  yours.  And  drop  in 
and  look  at  the  seals  every  day  or  two.  And  I'll  take  charge 
of  shipments  that  come  in,  unless  you  cancel  them.  If  you  bust 
the  seals,  I'll  have  to  take  you  into  court,  and  Wint  will  soak 
you." 


MARSHAL  JIM  RADABAUGH  201 

"You've  got  a  Chinaman's  chance,"  Lutcher  told  him  scorn 
fully.  "  Why,  I've  given  that  pup  his  pap  for  two  years.  I'm 
not  going  to  stand  for  this.  Not  for  a  minute.  You  tell  him 
so." 

"  If  you'd  rather  have  it  so,"  Jim  said  mildly,  "  I'll  pour  it 
all  out  of  the  window,  right  now."  He  said  this  mildly,  but 
Lutcher  knew  Jim's  mildness  was  apt  to  be  deceptive.  In 
the  end,  he  surrendered  to  the  inevitable,  because  it  was  the 
inevitable.  Jim  placed  his  seals,  and  strolled  away.  Lutcher 
boiled  out  after  him  and  hurried  off  to  see  V.  R.  Kite. 

The  marshal  bent  his  steps  toward  the  Weaver  House,  that 
infamous  hostelry  where  Wint  had  spent  the  night  of  his  elec 
tion,  and  where  he  had  been  found  next  day.  Radabaugh  knew 
Mrs.  Moody,  the  presiding  genius  of  that  place,  as  well  as  he 
knew  Lutcher.  He  had  always  made  it  his  business  to  know 
such  folk.  But  Mrs.  Moody  did  not  receive  him  with  the  good 
nature  Lutcher  had  shown.  She  had  heard  some  rumors  of 
what  was  to  come. 

The  sunken  office  of  the  old  hotel  was  little  changed,  when  the 
marshal  strolled  in,  since  that  night  of  Wint's  election.  The 
light  of  day,  fighting  its  way  through  the  dingy  windows, 
served  only  to  make  the  interior  more  squalid.  The  same  old 
men  played  their  interminable  game  of  checkers  on  the  table 
in  the  corner.  The  miserable  dog  that  bore  Marshal  Jim 
Radabaugh's  name  sprawled  beneath  the  table,  its  bony  legs 
clattering  on  the  floor  when  the  creature  stirred  in  its  sleep. 
The  boy,  that  boy  who  had  been  so  painfully  reading  the 
literature  of  brewing  on  the  night  of  the  election,  was  not  to  be 
seen.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  he  was  out  about  some  wholesome 
play.  Radabaugh  had  a  suspicion,  founded  on  experience,  that 
the  boy  was  not  in  school.  He  never  was.  Mrs.  Moody  sat 
behind  the  high,  bar-like  counter.  When  Radabaugh  came  in, 
she  got  up  with  a  quick,  deadly  movement  like  the  stir  of  a 
coiling  snake;  and  she  smiled  at  the  marshal  with  those 
hideously  beautiful  false  teeth  gleaming  in  her  aged  and  dis 
torted  countenance. 

"  Why,  good  morning,  deary,"  she  said,  terribly  amiable. 
"  I  don't  often  see  you  down  here  any  more," 


202  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"Morning,  Mrs.  Moody,"  said  Jim.  And  stalked  past  the 
counter  toward  the  door  that  led  to  that  back  room  which 
overhung  the  creek.  Mrs.  Moody  bustled  after  him  and  caught 
his  arm  at  the  door. 

"Where  you  a-going,  Jim  Radabaugh?  "  she  demanded. 
"  You  say  what  you  want,  and  say  it  here." 

Radabaugh  shook  his  head.  He  knew  such  measures  as  he 
had  used  with  Lutcher  would  not  serve  with  Mrs.  Moody.  The 
patrons  of  the  Weaver  House  had  little  respect  for  such  flimsy 
things  as  seals.  He  knew,  also,  that  there  was  no  possibility 
of  relying  upon  the  word  of  Mrs.  Moody.  Many  women, 
especially  such  women  as  she,  have  the  attitude  toward  promises 
that  the  Kaiser  had  toward  treaties.  They  consider  them  in 
teresting  only  when  broken.  Radabaugh  meant  to  destroy  her 
stock  of  liquor;  and  he  told  her  so. 

Then  she  began  to  scream  at  him.  The  old  men  at  the 
checkerboard  brushed  at  their  ears  as  though  her  screaming 
were  a  swarm  of  flies,  harassing  them.  Jim  pushed  her  to  one 
side  and  went  through  to  the  back  room.  When  he  set  about 
his  business  there,  she  attacked  him  with  a  billet  of  wood;  and 
Jim  subdued  the  old  warrior  as  gently  as  might  be,  and  told 
her  to  mind  what  she  did.  So  she  began  to  weep  and  wail  and 
scream  hysterically;  and  Jim  emptied  bottles  through  the  trap 
door  into  the  creek,  knocking  off  the  neck  of  each  bottle  so 
that  there  might  be  no  survivors.  All  the  while,  Mrs.  Moody 
wailed  behind  him. 

When  it  was  done,  he  turned  to  her,  brushing  his  hands. 
"  Orders  are,  no  more  selling,  ma'am,"  he  said  gently.  "  If 
you  start  up  again,  I'll  have  to  take  you  in." 

She  was  trying  to  placate  him  now.  "Whose  orders, 
deary?"  she  wheedled.  "Who's  doing  this  to  old  Mother 
Moody,  anyhow?  " 

"  Mayor,"  Jim  told  her ;  and  she  wailed : 

"  Wint  Chase.  Little  Wint  that  I've  put  to  bed  here  amany 
a  time.  He'd  never  go  and  do  this,  now.  Who  was  it? 
Honest." 

"  Mayor,"  Jim  repeated.  "  Straight  goods.  Hardiston 
has  gone  dry.  This  is  .serious,  too.  Don't  you  go  to  start 


MARSHAL  JIM  RADABAUGH  203 

anything,  ma'am.  Because  I  always  did  hate  to  arrest  a 
lady." 

"  You'll  just  have  to  —  you  might  just  as  well  take  me  right 
off  to  the  poor  farm,  Jim  Radabaugh.  I'm  not  making  ends 
meet,  even  right  now."  Her  withered  old  hands  covered  her 
face,  and  she  rocked  and  wailed :  "  Eh,  poor  old  Mother  Moody ! 
Poor  old  Mother  Moody!  You  wouldn't  take  me  in  if  I  sold 
just  a  little  bit,  would  you,  now?  " 

He  said  he  would ;  and  when  she  saw  he  meant  it,  she  dropped 
her  attempts  to  conciliate  him;  and  she  cursed  him  through  the 
corridor  and  through  the  office;  and  she  stood  in  the  door  of 
her  hostelry  and  cursed  him  as  long  as  he  could  hear,  so  that 
even  Jim  Radabaugh's  hardened  ears  turned  red  and  burned 
with  shame.  It  takes  a  brave  man  to  face  without  inward 
shrinking  the  revilements  of  a  thoroughly  angry  woman.  Jim 
was  glad  to  be  rid  of  her. 

He  stopped,  on  the  way  back  uptown,  to  warn  a  fly-by-nighter 
who  ran  a  lunch  cart  near  the  station  and  served  stronger 
drinks  than  coffee.  This  man  denied  any  interest  in  Jim's 
warning;  and  the  marshal  could  find  no  liquor  about  the  cart. 
Nevertheless  he  served  notice,  and  made  a  mental  memorandum 
to  see  to  it  that  the  notice  was  obeyed. 

Remained  only  V.  R.  Kite.  Radabaugh  grinned  as  he  thought 
of  Kite.  Kite  would  take  this  matter  hard;  and  when  V.  R. 
Kite  took  a  thing  hard,  the  sight  was  worth  seeing. 

But  Kite  was  not  in  the  Bazaar  when  he  got  there,  so  Jim 
strolled  back  up  street  and  dropped  in  on  B.  B.  Beecham.  The 
editor  greeted  him  as  courteously  as  he  greeted  every  one. 
"  Good  morning,"  he  said.  "  Have  a  chair.  Anything  I  can 
do  for  you?  " 

Radabaugh  spat  into  the  stove.  "  No,"  he  said,  readjusting 
the  bulge  in  his  cheek.  "  Just  dropped  in.  Waiting  to  see 
Kite." 

B.  B.  nodded.  "  Anything  new  with  you?  "  he  asked,  for 
everybody  was  a  source  of  news  to  B.  B.  Beecham.  That  was 
why  the  Journal  was  popular. 

"  We-ell,  I  have  got  a  sort  of  an  item  for  you,"  Jim  told 
him.  "  Might  be  worth  printing,  maybe." 


204  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

B.  B.  asked  what  it  was ;  and  Jim  told  him.  "  Wint's  give 
orders  that  the  town's  going  dry." 

B.  B.  said:  "  H'm!     Is  that  so?  "     And  Jim  said  it  was  so. 

"  Guess  that'll  be  an  item  folks  will  read,"  he  remarked. 

The  editor  shook  his  head.  "  We  don't  feel  we  can  print 
such  things,"  he  said.  "  You  see,  it's  bad  for  Hardiston,  out 
side.  Legally,  the  town  is  already  dry." 

"  I  never  did  have  much  of  any  use  for  laws,"  Jim  drawled. 

"  I  suppose  this  means  some  work  for  you." 

"  Can't  say.  Don't  think  so.  There  won't  be  much  of  it 
done,  except  a  little,  on  the  sly.  Not  after  the  word  I've 
passed  around." 

"  Well,  it  won't  do  Hardiston  any  harm.  Even  as  things  are, 
they  are  better  than  they  used  to  be.  I  can  remember  thir 
teen  saloons  here  at  one  time.  How  many  have  there  been, 
under  cover?  " 

"  Three-four,  regular,"  Jim  told  him. 

"  Very  few  people  will  really  miss  them,"  B.  B.  said.  "  Peo 
ple  do  so  many  things,  just  because  they're  in  the  habit,  and 
the  things  are  waiting  to  be  done.  It's  surprising  how  much 
a  man  can  give  up  without  realizing  that  he's  giving  up  any 
thing.  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  thought  of  that." 

"  Can't  say  I  ever  did,"  said  Jim,  and  spat  into  the  stove. 

"Like  the  horse  in  the  story.  You've  heard  about  the 
horse?  " 

"What  horse?" 

"  Oh,  you  haven't  heard  it?  The  horse  that  was  trained  to 
live  without  eating." 

Jim  looked  mildly  interested.  "  I'll  say  that  was  some 
horse,"  he  remarked.  "  What  happened  to  him?  " 

"  Why,  just  as  the  man  got  him  trained,  the  horse  died,"  said 
B.  B. ;  and  Jim  chuckled,  and  B.  B.  laughed  in  the  silently  up 
roarious  way  habitual  to  him.  Then  Jim  saw  V.  R.  Kite  pass 
by  on  the  way  to  the  Bazaar  and  got  up  quickly. 

"  There's  Kite,"  he  said.     "  See  you  later." 

He  overtook  the  little  man  just  inside  the  Bazaar;  and  Kite 
heard  his  step  and  turned  and  looked  at  him,  and  Jim  saw 
that  Kite  knew.  But  he  only  said: 


MARSHAL  JIM  RADABAUGH  205 

"Hello,  Kite.     Want  to  talk  to  you  a  minute." 

"  Come  back  to  my  desk,"  said  Kite,  and  led  the  way,  walk 
ing  stiffly,  head  high,  ever  so  much  like  a  turkey.  Jim  marked 
this  peculiarity  to  himself. 

"  Exactly  like  a  man  looking  over  a  high  fence,"  he  thought. 
"  I'll  declare,  it  is." 

Kite  sat  down,  tugged  at  his  side  whiskers,  and  bade  Jim 
speak.  The  marshal  looked  for  a  place  to  spit,  saw  none, 
swallowed  hard,  and  said: 

"  Guess  you've  heard  the  orders." 

"What  orders?  "  Kite  asked  harshly.  But  his  face  was  livid, 
and  the  veins  stood  out  on  his  forehead  with  his  effort  at  self- 
control. 

"  Mayor  calls  me  up  last  night  and  tells  me  to  stop  whisky 
selling.  Hardiston's  gone  dry." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  me?  "  Kite  demanded. 

The  marshal  did  not  grin.  If  Kite  wanted  to  act  that  way, 
all  right.  It  was  the  little  man's  privilege.  After  all,  he  was 
outwardly  respectable  enough,  a  pillar  of  the  church,  and  all 
that. 

"  Thought  you  might  be  interested,"  said  Jim. 

"  I  am,"  said  Kite.  "  I  believe  in  the  free  sale  of 
liquor.  Every  man  must  have  an  opinion,  one  way  or  the 
other." 

Jim  considered  that.  Then  he  got  up.  "  Well,"  he  said, 
"  I've  passed  the  word  around.  Don't  know  any  one  that's 
planning  to  keep  on  selling,  do  you?  " 

"No,  of  course  not." 

"  Because  if  you  do,"  said  Jim  slowly,  "  tell  'em  not  to 
do  it.  Because  if  there's  any  turns  up,  any  selling,  I'm  going 
to  come  and  ask  you  about  it,  Kite." 

Kite  boiled  up  out  of  his  chair  and  waved  his  fist.  "  Get 
out  of  here,  you  rat!  "  he  raged,  holding  his  voice  to  a 
monotonous  whisper  that  was  more  deadly  than  an  outcry  would 
have  been.  "  Get  out  of  here,  before  I  ..." 

"Before  you  what?  "  Jim  asked;  and  Kite  checked  himself, 
and  pulled  at  his  side  whiskers,  and  sat  down  abruptly,  staring 
at  the  desk  before  him. 


206  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Jim  left  him  there.  As  he  emerged  into  the  street,  he  began 
to  whistle.  The  whistle  was  ragged,  but  the  tune  could  be 
identified.  Jim  was  whistling: 

"  '  There'll  be  a  Hot  Time  in  the  Old  Town  To-night.'  " 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   BREWING   STORM 

WINT  lay  awake  for  a  while,  the  night  after  he  had 
given  his  orders  to  Radabaugh.  He  had  many 
things  to  occupy  his  thoughts.  There  was  in  him 
none  of  the  elation  which  might  have  been  expected;  he  had 
no  zest  for  the  fight  that  was  ahead  of  him.  He  was,  rather, 
depressed  and  doubtful  of  the  wisdom  of  what  he  had  done,  and 
doubtful  of  his  own  strength  and  determination  to  carry  it 
through.  He  was  acutely  aware  that  a  great  many  people  would 
say:  "Well,  Wint's  got  a  nerve.  A  fish  like  him,  trying  to 
make  Hardiston  dry.  I'll  bet  he's  got  a  cellar  full."  They 
would  say  this,  and  they  would  have  a  right  to  say  it.  Wint 
thought,  miserably  enough,  that  he  had  been  foolish  to  start 
trouble.  He  might  better  have  let  well  enough  alone. 

The  boy's  stubbornness  had  played  him  false  more  than  once 
in  the  past;  this  time  it  was  to  do  him  a  good  turn.  A  less 
stubborn  person  would  have  backed  down,  under  the  weight 
of  these  misgivings;  would  have  canceled  the  orders  given 
Radabaugh,  and  let  matters  slide  along  as  they  had  slid  in  the 
past.  But  Wint,  though  he  dreaded  the  ridicule  that  would  fol 
low  what  he  had  done,  felt  himself  committed.  They  would 
laugh!  Well,  let  them  laugh!  His  jaw  set;  he  swore  to  go 
on  at  any  cost.  On  this  determination,  he  slept  at  last. 

In  spite  of  his  wakefulness,  Wint  was  first  downstairs  in  the 
morning.  Hetty,  sweeping  out  the  sitting  room,  encountered 
him.  He  had  not  seen  her  the  day  before,  except  when  his 
father  and  mother  were  about.  Then  she  had  avoided  his  eye. 
Now  she  looked  at  him  sullenly,  and  said: 

"  Much  obliged  for  getting  me  to  bed,  Wint." 

"  That's  all  right,  Hetty.  I  remember  you  did  as  much  for 
me." 

She  laughed  harshly  and  defiantly.  "Sure  I  did,"  Her 

207 


208  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

eyes  were  watchful  and  on  guard.  Wint  guessed  that  she 
expected  him  to  reproach  her,  to  warn  her,  to  bid  her  mend 
her  ways.  But  he  did  nothing  of  the  kind. 

"  Forget  it,"  he  said.     "  It  wasn't  anything." 

Something  wistful  crept  into  her  eyes,  as  though  she  would 
have  said  more.  But  Mrs.  Chase  came  downstairs,  and  Hetty 
went  on  with  her  work,  while  Mrs.  Chase  volubly  directed  her. 

After  breakfast,  Wint  and  his  father  walked  downtown  to 
gether.  The  elder  Chase  asked  stiffly: 

"Well,  how  did  you  find  Amos?  " 

"  Same  as  ever,"  Wint  said. 

"  Suppose  he's  home  for  the  summer." 

LL     T  99 

I  guess  so. 

He  wondered  whether  to  tell  his  father  what  he  had  done; 
but  something  held  his  tongue.  It  may  have  been  diffidence, 
a  reluctant  feeling  that  to  tell  his  father  this  would  be  like 
an  effort  to  justify  himself  in  the  elder  Chase's  eyes.  It  may 
have  been  uncertainty  as  to  what  attitude  the  older  man  would 
take.  It  may  have  been  a  shrewd  guess  at  the  truth;  that 
Chase  would  attribute  the  move  to  Amos,  and  oppose  it  on  that 
ground.  Wint  had  no  illusions  about  his  father's  attitude 
toward  the  Congressman.  Chase  held  Amos  as  his  enemy,  with 
out  compromise. 

As  they  reached  the  first  stores  on  the  outskirts  of  the  busi 
ness  section  of  Hardiston,  they  met  Ned  Bentley  and  another 
man,  and  exchanged  greetings.  Bentley  grinned  at  Wint  in 
a  friendly  way,  and  Wint  knew  that  Bentley  had  heard  of  his 
order  to  Radabaugh.  The  elder  Chase  saw  something  had 
passed  between  them,  and  asked  Wint: 

"  What's  Bentley  so  cheerful  about?  " 

"  Why,  I  don't  know,"  said  Wint.  "  He's  usually  pretty 
good-natured." 

He  flushed  at  his  own  evasion,  but  the  older  man  did  not 
press  the  question,  and  a  little  later  they  separated. 

Foster,  the  city  solicitor  —  Foster  was  an  earnest  young  fel 
low,  and  took  his  office  seriously  —  was  waiting  for  Wint  in 
what  passed  as  Wint's  office,  off  the  main  room  above  the  fire- 
engine  house.  Foster  looked  flurried;  and  he  asked  quickly: 


THE  BREWING  STORM  209 

"Look  here,  Wint,  Radabaugh  says  you  told  him  to  clean 
up  the  town." 

Wint  nodded  idly,  fumbling  among  the  papers  on  his  desk. 
"Yes,  I  did." 

"Well,  what's  the  idea?"  Foster  demanded  excitedly. 
"What's  the  idea,  anyway?  " 

"  The  idea  is  to  —  clean  up  the  town,"  Wint  told  him. 

"You're  in  earnest?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  mean  to  stop  bootlegging?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Good  Lord!  "  said  Foster. 

The  solicitor's  consternation  gave  Wint  confidence.  He 
asked:  "Why,  what's  wrong  with  that?  " 

"  Wrong?  Nothing's  wrong.  But  you'll  surely  start  some 
thing." 

"  I  mean  to  stop  something." 

"  There'll  be  an  awful  row." 

Wint  said  quietly :  "  If  you  don't  want  to  come  through.  .  .  . 
If  you  don't  want  to  make  it  stick,  help  me  out,  why,  now's 
the  time  to  say  so,  and  get  out." 

"Good  Lord!  "  Foster  cried.  "Of  course  I'll  stick.  Noth 
ing  suits  me  better.  I'm.  ...  I  tell  you,  you  don't  know  what 
you've  started.  But  I'm  with  you,  Wint.  All  along  the  line. 
Absolutely." 

Wint  said:  "That's  good." 

"  It's  a  great  chance  for  me,"  Foster  said. 

Wint  chuckled.  "  Ought  to  do  you  and  Hardiston  both  some 
good." 

"  Prosecuting  all  those  cases." 

"  Oh,  there  won't  be  many  cases,"  Wint  said  cheerfully. 

"  A  lot  you  know.     Why  won't  there?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Wint,  "  I'm  going  to  see  that  the  first  man 
in  here  gets  soaked,  good  and  proper.  I'm  going  to  put  the 
fear  of  —  the  fear  of  me  into  them." 

"You  can't  scare  those  fellows." 

"Well,"  Wint  admitted,  "that  may  be  so.  But  I'm  surely 
going  to  try." 


210  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Foster  had  amused  him,  and  encouraged  him;  but  when 
Foster  was  gone,  and  he  was  left  alone,  his  depression  of  the 
night  before  returned.  He  locked  his  door.  He  did  not  want 
to  see  people.  And  he  sat  down  to  think. 

Radabaugh  came  in  a  little  before  noon  to  report  what  he 
had  done.  Wint  listened,  studying  the  marshal.  "  Think 
Lutcher  will  keep  straight?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  should  think  so." 

"  How  about  Mrs.  Moody?  " 

"  She'll  need  watching." 

"  See  that  you  watch  her." 

"I'm  right  on  the  job,"  Radabaugh  assured  him  easily;  and 
Jim  knew  the  marshal  meant  what  he  said.  "  I've  left  'em 
run  before,  because  there  wasn't  any  kick  made.  If  you  say 
shut  'em  off,  I'll  do  it.  That's  all." 

"  I  do  say  it,"  Wint  told  him.  He  got  up  and  gripped  the 
other's  shoulder,  something  of  the  excitement  of  the  coming 
fight  already  stirring  in  him.  "  Jim,  we'll  make  Hardiston  dry 
as  a  bone." 

Radabaugh  spat.  "  We-ell,"  he  drawled,  "  it  don't  take  much 
booze  to  wet  a  bone.  But  we'll  see  to  it  the  stuff  don't  go 
sloshing  around  the  gutters,  anyway." 

For  his  lunch,  Wint  went  to  fat  Sam  O'Brien's  restaurant. 
He  liked  the  place.  The  long,  high  counter,  scrubbed  white  as 
the  deck  of  a  ship;  the  revolving  stools  before  the  counter;  the 
shelves  on  which  bottles  of  mustards  and  catsups  and  spices 
were  ranged;  and  big  Sam  O'Brien  in  his  vast  white  apron 
presiding  over  it  all.  There  was  a  mechanical  piano  which 
played  a  tune  for  a  nickel  in  the  back  of  the  restaurant,  and  it 
was  jangling  and  tinkling  when  Wint  came  in.  Half  a  dozen 
men  were  there  before  him;  and  they  grinned  when  they  saw 
Wint,  and  spoke  among  themselves.  Sam  O'Brien  welcomed 
him  with  a  chuckle.  O'Brien  was  a  jocular  man.  He  set  plate 
and  knife  and  fork  and  a  thick  glass  of  water  before  Wint, 
and  spread  his  hands  on  the  counter,  and  asked  in  a  booming 
voice : 

"Well,   how's   your   appetite,   you  bold   crusader?" 

Wint  flushed,  and  said  uncomfortably:  "Cut  it  out,  Sam!  " 


THE  BREWING  STORM  211 

The  restaurant  proprietor  had  his  own  ideas  of  a  joke;  and 
he  made  the  most  of  them.  At  Wint's  words,  he  threw  back 
his  head  and  laughter  poured  out  of  him.  He  rocked,  he 
slapped  his  great  fist  on  the  counter. 

"  Cut  it  out?  "  he  repeated.  "  Oh,  Wint,  you're  the  funny 
man.  Cut  it  out,  he  says !  The  whole  blamed  town.  '  The 
booze  is  getting  you,  Hardiston.  Cut  it  out,'  he  says!  "  He 
bellowed  the  words.  "Cut  it  out!  Cut  it  out!  Oh,  Wint, 
you'll  be  the  death  o'  me." 

There  was  never  any  use  resenting  Sam  O'Brien.  Wint 
laughed  and  said :  "  I'll  be  the  death  of  you  if  you  don't  get  me 
something  to  eat,  Sam.  Get  a  move  on  your  old  carcass." 

After  lunch,  he  had  a  word  or  two  with  men  upon  the 
street;  but  he  did  not  want  to  talk  to  them.  He  wanted  to  get 
out  of  their  way,  out  of  sight.  His  nerves  were  beginning  to 
jangle;  he  wanted  something  to  happen.  There  was  hanging 
over  him  a  storm;  he  wanted  the  storm  to  break.  He  had  a 
thought  of  going  to  V.  R.  Kite  and  flinging  a  defiance  in  that 
old  buzzard's  gold-filled  teeth.  He  liked  to  think  of  Kite  as  an 
old  buzzard;  the  phrase  pleased  him.  Men  will  always  be 
pleased  to  find  they  have  used  words  tellingly.  The  gift  of 
speech  is  what  distinguishes  man  from  the  animals;  it  is  right 
that  he  should  vaunt  himself  upon  it. 

But  in  the  end,  Wint  did  not  go  to  Kite;  he  went  to  Hoover's 
office  and  hid  himself  in  a  back  room  with  a  law  book.  Neither 
Dick  nor  his  father  was  there  when  he  arrived;  he  counted  on 
not  being  disturbed.  He  did  not  want  to  be  disturbed.  He 
wanted  to  be  let  alone.  He  was  mistrustful  of  himself,  of  his 
motives  and  of  his  powers. 

In  mid-afternoon,  the  telephone  rang;  and  he  answered, 
expecting  a  call  for  one  or  the  other  of  the  Hoovers.  But  when 
he  spoke  into  the  instrument,  some  one  said :  "  Is  this  you, 
Wint?  " 

He  said  it  was;  and  the  some  one  said:  "  This  is  Joan." 

Wint  said :  "  Oh !  "  He  was  uncomfortable,  wondering  what 
she  wanted,  why  she  had  called. 

"  I've  just  heard  what  you've  done,"  she  said. 

"What's  that?"  Wint  asked.     "Done  what?" 


212  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  About  how  you're  going  to  —  to  clean  up  Hardiston." 

"Oh,  that,"  said  Wint.     "Yes." 

"  Central  told  me  I  could  probably  get  you  at  the  Hoover 
office." 

"  Yes.     Yes,  I'm  here." 

"  I  thought  you  might  like  to  know  that  I'm  glad  you're  going 
to  do  this." 

"  That's  all  right,"  he  said  awkwardly.  The  old,  stubborn 
resentment  at  any  praise  was  awake  in  him;  but  there  was  a 
curious  tincture  of  happiness,  too. 

"It's  a  good  fight,  Wint,"  she  said.     "And  — you'll  win." 

Wint  laughed  uneasily.  "  Oh,  sure,"  he  said.  He  did  not 
want  to  talk  about  it;  and  Joan  understood  and  said  good-by. 
Wint  stared  thoughtfully  at  the  telephone  for  a  while;  then  he 
went  back  to  his  probing  into  the  musty  recesses  of  the  law 
which  he  found  so  live  and  vital. 

But  he  was  unable  to  keep  his  thoughts  upon  the  book.  They 
wandered.  He  kept  thinking  about  V.  R.  Kite.  He  kept  won 
dering  what  Kite  would  do. 

And  he  wished  insistently  that  whatever  Kite  meant  to  do,  he 
would  do  quickly.  Wint  was  tired  of  waiting  for  the  storm  to 
break. 


CHAPTER  III 

A   HARD   DAY   FOR   KITE 

IF  V.  R.  Kite  had  been  wise  enough  to  let  Wint  severely 
alone,  in  the  days  that  followed,  it  is  not  at  all  improbable 
that  Wint's  resolution  would  have  weakened.  But  if 
knaves  were  wise,  they  would  not  be  knaves.  So,  instead  of 
being  left  alone  with  his  depression,  and  his  doubts  of  himself, 
Wint  was  attacked  front  and  flank;  and  the  stimulus  of  battle 
proved  to  be  exactly  what  he  needed  to  forge  his  determination 
and  whip  his  courage  to  the  sticking  point. 

Kite  first  heard  the  news  of  what  Wint  had  done  from 
Lutcher,  the  amiable  man  in  the  distinctive  vest,  whose  stock 
in  trade  Jim  Radabaugh  put  under  seal.  Lutcher  went  straight 
away  to  Kite  when  Radabaugh  left  him;  and  he  found  Kite 
still  ignorant  of  what  had  come  to  pass.  Lutcher  took  a  decided 
pleasure  in  breaking  the  news  to  Kite.  He  found  the  little 
turkey  of  a  man  at  his  desk  in  the  Bazaar;  and  he  stuck  his 
thumbs  into  the  armholes  of  his  vest  and  said  in  his  husky, 
whispering  voice : 

"Well,  Kite,  we're  closed  up." 

Kite  had  greeted  Lutcher  as  pleasantly  as  he  greeted  any  one. 
He  was  a  little  afraid  of  the  big,  bald  man,  and  Lutcher  knew 
it.  He  was  as  much  afraid  of  Lutcher  as  Lutcher  was  of  Jim 
Radabaugh.  But  he  forgot  to  be  afraid  of  Lutcher  in  this 
moment.  He  came  up  out  of  his  chair  like  a  Jack-in-the-Box 
—  and  Kite  looked  not  unlike  the  conventional  Jack-in-the-Box 
with  his  lean  neck  and  his  poised  head  and  his  side  whiskers 
flying  —  and  he  snapped  at  Lutcher : 

"What's  that  you  say?" 

Lutcher  grinned,  and  wheezed :  "  I  say  we're  closed  up." 

"Closed  up?"  Kite  repeated,  in  something  like  a  shout. 
"Closed  up?  What  do  you  mean?  Talk  English,  man." 

Lutcher  ran  his  thick  finger  around  the  soft  collar  of  his 

213 


214  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

silken  shirt.     "  I  mean  Radabaugh's  given  orders  not  to  sell 
any  more  stuff,"  he  said.     "  What  did  you  think  I  meant?  " 

"You're  crazy,"  said  Kite  flatly.  "  Radabaugh  wouldn't 
dare  do  that." 

"Well,  he's  done  it!" 

"  Jim  Radabaugh?     The  marshal?  " 

"  Sure,"  said  Lutcher  impatiently.  "  Can't  you  hear  what 
I  say?  Came  and  sealed  me  up  this  morning.  Said  it  was 
orders." 

"  Orders?     Whose  orders?  " 

"  Mayor's." 

Kite's  clenched  fists  went  into  the  air.  "  He  can't  do  that," 
he  said  fiercely.  "  I  won't  stand  for  it.  By  God,  if  he  tries 
to  do  that,  I'll  leave  town.  Or  I'll  kill  the  pup.  Or  kill  myself. 
I  won't  stand  for  it,  I  tell  you,  Lutcher." 

"  Don't  tell  me,"  said  Lutcher,  amiable  again  in  the  face 
of  the  other's  excitement.  "  Don't  tell  me;  tell  the  Mayor." 

Kite  stood  for  a  minute  with  staring,  thoughtful  eyes,  as 
though  Lutcher  were  not  there.  Then  he  grabbed  his  hat  and 
started  for  the  street.  Lutcher  looked  after  him,  grinning 
with  amusement.  "The  old  buzzard  does  take  it  hard,"  he 
told  himself.  "  Well,  I  should  worry.  What's  he  up  to  now?  " 

Kite  had  disappeared.  When  Lutcher  got  to  the  street,  the 
little  man  was  no  longer  in  sight.  Lutcher  wondered  what  Kite 
had  set  off  to  do;  and  he  loitered  for  a  while  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  the  little  man  again.  Kite's  fury  amused  him.  But  Kite 
had  not  returned  when  Jim  Radabaugh  drifted  into  sight;  and 
Lutcher  did  not  want  to  see  Jim  again,  so  he  effaced  himself. 
He  saw  Jim  go  into  the  Bazaar,  and  come  out  again,  and  stop 
at  the  Journal  office;  and  after  a  little,  Kite  came  down  the 
street  from  the  Court  House,  and  Radabaugh  emerged  from 
the  Journal  office,  and  followed  Kite  into  the  Bazaar.  Lutcher 
wished  he  could  be  near  enough  to  hear  what  they  said,  but 
there  was  no  chance  of  it,  so  he  departed. 

Kite  held  on  to  himself  while  he  talked  with  Radabaugh; 
but  when  the  marshal  was  gone,  the  little  man,  in  the  shelter 
of  his  desk,  fretted  and  jerked  in  his  chair  in  a  tempest  of 
furious  anger.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it;  he  did  take  this 


A  HARD  DAY  FOR  KITE  215 

news  hard.     But  one  watching  with  a  seeing  eye  might  have 
discovered  in  Kite's  anger  something  else;   a  touch  of  panic. 

Perhaps  fear  is  always  a  part  of  anger;  perhaps  it  is  one  of 
the  springs  from  which  anger  flows.  But  in  the  case  of  Kite, 
his  fear  and  panic  tended  to  quiet  him  and  steady  him  and 
bid  him  go  slowly  and  watch  his  every  move.  There  had 
been  a  day  when  he  would  have  leaped  into  such  a  fight  as  this, 
a  terrible  and  furious  figure.  But  Kite  was  getting  old.  There 
was  something  senile  and  pitiful  in  his  fury  now. 

There  in  the  rear  of  his  busy  little  shop,  with  customers 
going  and  coming  and  the  clerks  laughing  together,  Kite 
twisted  his  fingers  together  and  beat  at  his  head  with  his 
clenched  hands  and  tried  to  think  what  to  do.  He  had  been  so 
sure  that  Wint  would  never  take  this  step;  he  had  been  so  sure 
that  with  Wint  as  Mayor,  Hardiston  would  be  safely  and 
securely  wet.  He  had  been  so  sure  of  Amos  CaretalPs  good 
will.  Chase  and  Jack  Routt  had  warned  him;  but  he  had  not 
believed  their  warnings,  because  he  did  not  wish  to  believe. 
Wint  was  a  drinker;  it  was  just  common  sense  that  Wint  would 
let  the  town  go  on  as  it  had  gone  in  the  past.  Kite  had  counted 
on  it. 

And  now  Wint  had  betrayed  him.  That  was  the  word  that 
sprang  into  Kite's  mind.  Wint  had  betrayed  him.  He  felt  an 
honest  indignation  at  the  Mayor.  He  was  more  indignant  than 
he  had  been  when  Wint  called  him  a  buzzard.  He  had  accepted 
that  good-naturedly  enough.  Hard  names  broke  no  bones; 
besides,  Wint  had  been  quite  obviously  suffering  from  an  over 
night  bout,  that  morning.  Kite  knew  the  mood;  he  was  not 
surprised;  and  he  was  not  resentful.  But  this  was  different. 
Damnably  different.  This  was  out  and  out  treachery,  be 
trayal.  He  had  helped  elect  Wint;  now  Wint  turned  against 
him. 

Kit  felt  acutely  sorry  for  himself;  he  felt  acutely  reproach 
ful  toward  Wint.  And  when  Jack  Routt  dropped  in,  half  an 
hour  after  Radabaugh  had  gone,  with  a  triumphant  light  in  his 
eye,  Kite  told  him  so. 

"I  didn't  think  Wint  would  do  it,"  he  said  dolefully. 
"  Routt,  I  didn't  suppose  Wint  would  do  this  to  me." 


216  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Routt  chuckled.  "  It's  not  Wint's  doing,"  he  said.  "  I  told 
you  this  was  coming,  you  know.  It's  Amos." 

But  Kite  was  in  no  mood  for  rage  at  Amos.  "  I  don't  know," 
he  said.  "  This  looks  like  Wint's  doing.  It's  a  boy's  trick. 
A  man  like  Amos  would  have  seen  the  harm  for  Hardiston  in 
such  a  move.  No,  Jack,  Wint  did  this,  himself." 

Routt  shook  his  head.  "  I  know  better.  You  get  after  Amos, 
and  Wint  will  come  to  heel.  I  know  them  both,  I  tell  you." 

"  I  can't  believe  it,"  Kite  insisted.  "  What  motive  could  he 
possibly  have?  " 

"  Trying  to  get  on  the  band  wagon,"  Routt  told  him.  "  That's 
Amos.  Trying  to  get  on  the  dry  band  wagon." 

"  No,  no,  it's  Wint.  He's  the  one  we  must  go  to.  He's 
the  one  we  must  work  on.  He's  got  to  be  stopped,  Routt." 
Something  of  the  old  fire  was  reviving  in  Kite.  "  He's  got 
to  be  stopped.  Scared  off.  Called  off.  Something.  I  won't 
stand  for  such  a  state  of  affairs.  Such  a  thing  ...  In  Har 
diston." 

Routt  grinned.     "  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  " 

"  Get  after  him.  There  must  be  a  way.  Don't  you  know  a 
way  to  get  hold  of  him  and  bring  him  to  time?  Must  be  some 
way,  Routt.  Think,  man;  think.  What  can  we  do?  Scare 
him  off?  " 

Routt  looked  at  Kite  in  a  curious,  intent  way,  as  though  he 
thought  there  might  be  a  hidden  meaning  in  what  the  other  man 
had  said.  "What's  your  idea  exactly?"  he  asked.  "What's 
up  your  sleeve?  " 

"  Idea?  "  Kite  echoed.  "  Idea  is  to  get  something  on  that 
young  skate  and  make  him  call  Radabaugh  off.  That's  the 
idea.  Get  after  him,  heavy.  There  must  be  a  way.  Some 
way." 

Routt  smiled  faintly,  tilting  back  in  his  chair,  looking  at 
the  ceiling;  and  he  blew  a  long  stream  of  smoke  straight  up 
ward.  Kite  snapped: 

"Well?" 

"  Well,"  said  Routt,  "  there's  something  in  that.  There  might 
be  a  way.  .  .  ." 

Kite  leaned  toward  him  intently.     "  What  is  it?  " 


A  HARD  DAY  FOR  KITE  217 

Routt  waved  his  hand.  "  Nothing  definite.  Might  develop. 
Hold  off  a  while." 

"  I  can't  hold  off,"  said  Kite.  "  I  won't  hold  off.  Some 
thing's  got  to  be  done." 

"Then  you  do  it,"  Routt  told  him  carelessly;  and  Kite 
pleaded  with  him. 

"  No,  no.  You  do  your  own  way.  I'll  try  mine.  We'll 
both  work  at  this,  Routt.  Something  ...  I  ...  See  what 
you  can  do.  That's  all.  I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 

Routt  got  up.  "  Don't  forget,"  he  said,  "  that  Amos  is  back 
of  this." 

Kite  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  think  so.  We'll  hit  Wint 
first.  I  don't  want  to  buck  Amos." 

"  You'll  find,"  said  Routt,  "  that  you'll  have  to  buck  Amos." 

After  Routt  left  him,  Kite  sat  for  a  while,  fingers  tapping 
nervously  on  his  desk,  wondering  what  to  do  next.  And  he 
wondered  if  it  could  be  that  Routt  was  right,  that  Amos  was 
back  of  this  move  on  Wint's  part.  Routt  had  said  Amos  would 
do  this;  so,  Kite  remembered,  had  the  elder  Chase.  Chase  had 
come  to  him,  shortly  after  the  election,  to  warn  Kite  that  this 
was  sure  to  happen.  Were  Routt  and  Chase  right;  was  it 
possible  that  Amos  had  betrayed  him? 

Kite  would  not  believe  it.  Not  because  he  had  any  doubt 
of  Amos's  willingness  to  betray  him,  but  because  he  did  not 
dare  believe  that  this  was  Amos's  doing.  If  Wint  had  made 
the  move  on  his  own  account,  there  was  some  hope  of  swaying 
him,  or  frightening  him.  But  if  Amos  had  prompted  it  and 
were  backing  Wint  now,  the  situation  was  almost  hopeless. 

Therefore  Kite  refused  to  believe  that  Amos  was  responsible; 
he  clung  to  the  idea  that  the  whole  thing  was  Wint's  own  idea. 
Wint,  then,  he  must  fight. 

He  thought  of  Wint;  and  he  thought  of  Wint's  father  again. 
There  might  be  a  chance  to  move  Wint  through  his  father.  "  If 
the  boy  has  any  sense  of  duty,"  Kite  thought,  "he'll  do  what 
his  father  says."  He  forgot  that  the  elder  Chase  had  always 
been  a  "  dry  "  man.  Politics  takes  little  account  of  convictions; 
and  Kite  clutched  at  the  hope  that  the  elder  Chase  could  change 


218  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Wint's  mind.  Chase  had  offered  him  alliance,  once ;  had  offered 
him  an  alliance  against  Amos.  He  should  be  willing  to  show 
his  friendliness  now.  Kite's  eyes  lighted  with  a  faintly  op 
timistic  glint  at  the  thought;  and  he  took  his  hat  and  started 
forthwith  down  the  street  toward  the  furnace  where  Chase 
was  to  be  found  during  the  day. 

He  met  a  number  of  men ;  and  he  thought  they  all  grinned  at 
him  with  derision  in  their  eyes.  They  must  know  what  had 
happened;  must  be  amused  at  this  plight  in  which  he  found 
himself.  The  thought  roused  the  anger  in  Kite,  and  strength 
ened  him.  He  went  on  his  way  more  boldly.  By  and  by,  at 
the  end  of  the  street,  the  smoky  black  bulk  of  the  furnace  loomed 
before  him. 

Kite  did  not  like  the  looks  of  the  furnace;  there  was  such 
an  atmosphere  of  harnessed  power  about  it,  and  Kite  was 
always  a  little  afraid  the  power  would  break  its  harness.  To 
reach  the  office,  he  had  to  go  through  the  very  heart  of  the 
monstrous  thing.  At  the  beginning  of  the  way,  a  ten-foot 
flame  hissed  out  of  the  very  earth  itself,  at  his  right  hand,  so 
that  he  shrank  past  it  timidly.  Then  he  must  pick  his  way 
through  a  corridor  between  structures  like  squat,  brick  ovens, 
below  which  living  flame  roared  in  a  stream  like  a  racing 
torrent.  He  could  see  this  stream  of  flame.  There  was  nothing 
to  hold  it,  between  the  ovens.  He  trembled  with  fear  that  this 
stream  would  leap  out  at  him. 

When  he  passed  under  the  stacks,  pulsing  with  the  rhythmic 
beat  of  life  which  stirred  them,  he  could  hear  the  roar  of  the 
fires  inside,  and  the  hiss  of  the  air  from  the  tuyeres,  and  the 
sounds  were  like  the  ravenings  of  beasts  to  him.  Kite  felt 
immensely  small,  immensely  insignificant.  Toward  the  end 
of  his  way  he  was  almost  running,  and  he  came  out  with  vast 
relief  upon  the  other  side,  and  approached  the  iron-sheeted 
building  which  housed  the  furnace  office  and  the  chemist's 
laboratory.  He  might  have  come  here  by  circling  around  the 
furnace,  but  even  Kite  'had  pride  enough  to  face  dangers,  rather 
than  avoid  them. 

He  found  the  elder  Chase  at  his  desk;  and  Chase  dismissed 
the  stenographer  to  whom  he  had  been  dictating,  and  offered 


A  HARD  DAY  FOR  KITE  219 

Kite  a  cigar.  Kite  refused  it.  He  was  by  personal  habit  an 
abstemious  man.  "  I  never  smoke,"  he  said. 

Chase  nodded,  a  little  ill  at  ease.  He  had  tried  to  make 
an  alliance  with  Kite,  but  he  did  not  like  the  little  man,  and 
never  would.  He  did  not  like  Kite,  and  he  was  self-conscious 
about  it,  and  felt  that  he  ought  to  make  up  for  his  dislike 
by  treating  Kite  with  extreme  courtesy.  So  now  he  asked: 
"  Well,  Mr.  Kite,"  and  Kite  responded  with  a  sharp  question : 

"  What's  this  Wint's  doing?  " 

There  had  been  a  time  when  such  an  inquiry  frightened  Chase ; 
because,  when  people  asked  him  such  a  question,  he  knew  they 
meant  that  Wint  was  in  trouble  again.  But  he  was  coming  to 
have  a  certain  faith  in  Wint;  so  he  was  puzzled  by  Kite's 
question,  and  said  so. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  he  told  the  little  man. 

Kite  was  surprised.  "Good  God!  You  must  know.  Didn't 
he  tell  you?  " 

"  He's  told  me  nothing  in  particular.     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  The  young  fool  has  given  Radabaugh  orders  against  any 
more  liquor  selling." 

Chase's  first  reaction  to  this  information  was  a  leap  of  de 
lighted  pride.  It  was  what  he  would  have  wished  Wint  to 
do;  it  was  what  he  himself  would  have  done  in  Wint's  place. 
It  was  a  decent,  strong  thing  to  do,  and  Chase  was  glad.  Kite 
saw  this  in  the  other  man's  eyes;  and  he  exclaimed  chal- 
lengingly: 

"You  look  as  though  you  were  tickled,  man.  Don't  you 
know  this  thing  will  ruin  Hardiston?  " 

Chase  knew  it  would  not  ruin  Hardiston;  nevertheless  he  was 
willing  to  humor  Kite.  So  he  asked :  "  Do  you  know  the 
details?  Tell  me  about  it." 

Kite  laughed  harshly.  "  You  hadn't  heard  of  it,  then.  He 
didn't  tell  you.  It  was  Amos  put  him  up  to  it,  I  guess,  after 
all.  But  it  looks  as  though  he'd  have  told  you,  anyway."  Kite 
was  shrewd  enough  in  his  way;  he  understood  that  Chase,  as 
a  father,  must  be  jealous  of  Amos's  influence  with  Wint.  And 
Chase  reacted  as  Kite  expected.  His  eyes  clouded  with  hurt. 
Wint  might  have  told  him;  should  have  told  him.  Instead, 


220  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

his  son  had  laid  him  open  to  this  new  humiliation,  the  humili 
ation  of  hearing  important  news  from  a  third  person.  And  — 
Wint  had  had  supper  with  Amos  last  night. 

Chase  struck  back,  in  the  instinct  to  defend  himself.  "  You 
remember,  I  warned  you  Congressman  Caretall  would  do  just 
this." 

"  Sure  I  remember,"  Kite  agreed.  "  That's  why  I've  come  to 
you.  Want  to  get  together  with  you.  That  was  our  under 
standing.  I'm  going  to  skin  Amos  Caretall.  Are  you  with 
me?  That's  the  question."  He  was  shrewd  enough  to  rouse 
Chase  against  Amos,  not  against  Chase's  own  son.  And  Chase 
considered  the  matter,  inwardly  hurt  and  sorry  because  Wint 
had  not  confided  in  him,  and  boiling  with  jealous  hostility 
toward  Amos. 

"  All  right,"  he  said  at  last.  "  You  see  I  was  right.  What 
are  we  going  to  do?  " 

"Do?"  Kite  snapped.  "We're  going  to  make  Amos  run 
to  cover.  That's  what  we're  going  to  do." 

"  After  all,"  Chase  reminded  him,  "  I'm  a  dry  man.  I  can't 
fight  Amos  on  that  issue." 

"  Dry?  "  Kite  demanded.  "  What  of  it?  What's  that  got  to 
do  with  it?  This  is  politics.  Amos  is  no  more  dry  than  I 
am;  but  he  plays  the  dry  game  because  that's  politics,  and 
there  are  votes  in  it.  He's  trying  to  steal  your  thunder,  Chase. 
If  Amos  grabs  the  dry  vote,  where  do  you  come  in?  I  tell 
you,  we've  got  to  lick  him,  man." 

"  How?  "  Chase  asked  at  last.     "  What  are  we  going  to  do?  " 

"  First  thing,"  Kite  said,  "  is  to  get  after  Wir>t."  He  had 
been  ready  with  the  answer  to  this  question.  "  Caretall  is 
using  Wint.  Making  a  tool  of  him.  A  scapegoat.  Wint 
doesn't  know  his  own  mind.  Caretall's  using  him.  We've  got 
to  get  him  out  of  Caretall's  hands.  Get  him  to  work  with 
you.  You're  his  father.  He  ought  to  want  to  work  with  you. 
Oughtn't  he?" 

"  He  and  I  —  understand  each  other,"  Chase  said.  He  was 
not  at  all  sure  this  was  true,  but  he  could  not  confess  to  Kite 
that  he  and  Wint  were  less  than  confidants. 

"Sure,"   Kite    agreed.     "Naturally.     So   the   first   thing   to 


A  HARD  DAY  FOR  KITE  221 

do  is  for  you  to  go  to  Wint  and  tell  him  what  he's  up  against. 
How  he's  being  manipulated.  Get  him  to  rescind  the  order. 
Then  we'll  go  after  Amos,  with  Wint  helping  us,  and  clean 
him  up." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Chase  reluctantly. 

"Good  God,  man,"  Kite  snapped,  "can't  you  handle  your 


own  son? 


Chase  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window,  his  back  to  Kite. 
His  lips  set  firmly.  Kite  was  right;  he  ought  to  be  able  to 
handle  his  own  son,  unless  the  world  were  all  awry.  After 
all,  the  dry  question  was  only  a  pretext.  Wint  ought  to  train 
with  him  rather  than  with  Amos.  He  would  tell  the  boy  so. 

When  at  last  he  turned  toward  Kite  again,  the  other  man 
saw  that  he  had  won.  "  I'll  see,"  said  Chase.  "  I'll  talk  to 
Wint  and  see." 


CHAPTER  IV 

CHASE    CHANGES   SIDES 

WINTHROP  CHASE,  SENIOR,  was  thoughtful  all  that 
day;  he  went. home  in  the  evening  still  undecided 
as  to  what  he  should  do.     He  was  unhappy,  hurt 
at  Wint's  reticence,  disturbed  as  to  his  own  course  of  action, 
and  fiercely  resentful  of  Amos's  influence  over  his  son. 

His  conscience  was  troubling  him;  and  he  was  trying  to 
quiet  it  with  Kite's  more  or  less  specious  argument  that  this 
was  politics,  not  morality.  If  Chase  had  been  asked  to  come 
out,  point-blank,  and  champion  the  nonenforcement  of  the 
liquor  law,  he  would  have  refused;  and  he  would  have  refused 
with  indignation  at  the  suggestion.  But  the  issue  was  not  so 
clear  as  that.  It  was  clouded  by  his  dislike  for  Amos.  It  was 
not  merely  a  question  of  enforcing  the  law;  it  was  a  question 
of  balking  Amos  Caretall.  And  Chase  was  prepared  to  go 
a  long  way  to  put  a  spoke  in  Amos's  wheel. 

Wint  had  not  yet  come,  when  he  reached  his  home;  and  he 
was  glad  of  that.  It  gave  him  some  leeway,  gave  him  some 
further  time  to  think.  But  his  thoughts  ran  in  an  endless  circle ; 
his  convictions  countered  his  enmity  toward  Amos.  It  was  only 
by  small  degrees  that  his  attitude  toward  Amos  crowded  other 
considerations  out  of  his  mind.  He  was  gradually  coming  to 
the  point  of  decision  when  he  heard  Wint  at  the  door.  Mrs. 
Chase  met  Wint  in  the  front  hall,  and  told  him  hurriedly: 

"  Now,  Wint,  you're  late  again.  You  run  right  upstairs  and 
wash  your  face  and  hands.  Supper's  all  ready,  and  Hetty 
wants  to  go  out,  and  I  don't  want  to  keep  her  waiting  any  — " 

Wint  laughed,  and  kissed  her,  and  told  her  he  would  hurry, 
and  he  was  gone  up  the  stairs,  two  steps  at  a  time,  while  his 
mother  still  talked  to  him.  When  he  came  down,  his  father 
and  mother  had  already  gone  into  the  dining  room.  He  fol 
lowed  them,  answered  his  father's  "  Good  evening,  Wint,"  in 
an  abstracted  way,  and  sat  down  hurriedly.  He  did  not  look 

222 


CHASE  CHANGES  SIDES  223 

toward  his  father;  he  was  conscious  he  had  not  done  the  fair 
thing  in  failing  to  tell  the  older  man  of  his  orders  to  Radabaugh. 
He  felt  guilty. 

Mrs.  Chase  never  allowed  any  gaps  in  the  conversation  to 
go  unplugged;  and  since  Wint  and  his  father  were  both  normal 
men,  with  normal  appetites,  she  did  most  of  the  talking  during 
the  early  part  of  the  meal,  while  they  ate.  It  was  only  when 
Hetty  brought  on  a  thick  rhubarb  pie  and  Mrs.  Chase  began 
to  cut  it  that  Chase  said  casually  to  his  son: 

"  Well,  Wint,  I  hear  you've  set  out  to  clean  up  Hardiston." 

Wint  gulped  what  was  in  his  mouth,  and  uneasily  admitted 
that  this  was  true.  Mrs.  Chase  was  talking  to  Hetty  about  the 
pie  and  did  not  hear  what  they  said.  Chase  asked: 

"What  does  Amos  think  of  that?  " 

Wint  looked  for  an  instant  at  his  father.  "Thinks  it's  all 
right,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Chase  came  back  into  the  conversation  then.  She  had 
the  aggravating  habit  of  catching  the  tail  end  of  a  story  or  a 
remark  and  demanding  that  the  whole  be  repeated  for  her 
benefit.  "What's  all  right?"  she  asked.  "What's  all  right, 
Wint?  Who  thinks  it's  all  right?  It  keeps  me  so  busy  look 
ing  after  things  here  that  it  seems  like  I  never  hear  what's 
going  on.  What  is  it  that  — " 

Chase  told  her  quietly :  "  Wint  has  given  Marshal  Radabaugh 
orders  not  to  allow  any  more  selling  of  liquor  in  Hardiston." 

Mrs.  Chase  was  astonished.  She  said  so.  "  Well,  I  never," 
she  exclaimed.  "  You  know,  Wint,  I  never  thought  you'd  do 
that.  I  think  it's  time,  though,  something  was  done.  I  told 
Mrs.  Hullis  ...  I  was  saying  to  Mrs.  Hullis  here  only  yes 
terday  that  it  was  a  shame,  the  way  men  were  getting  drunk. 
That  Ote  Runns,  that  beats  my  carpets,  came  here  yesterday  to 
do  some  work  for  me,  and  I  paid  him;  and  Mrs.  Hullis  saw 
him  coming  home  from  town  that  afternoon,  and  he  couldn't 
even  stay  on  the  sidewalk,  he  was  staggering  so.  I  declare, 
it  makes  you  feel  like  not  paying  a  man  like  that  for  working 
for  you,  when  he  can  go  right  off  and  spend  his  money  on 
whisky,  and  his  wife  and  children  at  home  — " 

Wint  said,  with  a  glance  at  his  father :  "  Ote's  not  married, 


224  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

mother.  He  hasn't  any  wife;  and  as  far  as  I  know,  he  hasn't 
any  children." 

"  Well,  suppose  he  had,"  she  demanded,  "  wouldn't  it  be 
just  the  same?  I  declare,  Wint,  you're  always  contradicting 
me.  But  I  said  to  Mrs.  Hullis  I  thought  it  was  a  shame,  and  she 
said  she  thought  so  too,  and  it  is.  You've  done  just  right, 
Wint.  I  didn't  think  anybody  could  ever  do  that,  or  I'd  have 
told  you  to  do  it  before.  I  didn't  know  the  Mayor  had  the 
say  of  that,  Wint.  I  thought  the  Mayor  was  the  man  you 
went  to  when  your  dogs  got  into  the  pound.  I  remember  Mrs. 
Hullis's  dog  got  taken  to  the  pound,  three  years  ago,  and  she 
went  to  Mayor  Johnson,  he  was  then,  and  he  got  him  out  for 
her.  And  I  told  her  — " 

Wint  had  been  watching  his  father.  He  had  expected  the 
older  man  to  be  proud  of  him,  and  had  rather  dreaded  this 
pride.  He  had  prepared  himself  to  disclaim  any  praise  that 
might  come.  But  —  Chase  was  not  offering  to  praise  him. 
There  was  no  pride  in  his  father's  face;  there  was  rather  an 
uneasy  regret,  and  it  fired  the  antagonism  in  Wint,  and  made 
him  feel  like  defending  himself.  He  asked,  interrupting  Mrs. 
Chase,  whether  the  elder  Chase  thought  the  orders  should  be 
enforced. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  Chase  said,  and  Mrs.  Chase  lapsed  into  a 
momentary  silence,  pouring  fresh  tea  into  her  cup. 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  a  good  thing?  "  Wint  demanded  chal- 
lengingly.  "Don't  you  —  aren't  you  glad?  " 

Mrs.  Chase  said :  "  Of  course  it's  a  good  thing.  It  ought  to 
have  been  done  long  ago.  It's  a  shame,  the  way  things  have 
been  going  on  in  this  — " 

Chase  said  to  her:  "Ordinarily,  mother,  I  would  think  it  a 
good  thing.  But  in  this  case,  it's  a  part  of  Amos  Caretall's 
political  game.  A  part  of  his  — " 

Wint  looked  at  his  father  sharply,  a  word  leaping  to  his 
lips.  Mrs.  Chase  asked:  "Congressman  Caretall?  Is  he  back 
here  again,  after  the  way  he  treated  you?  Wint,  I  should  think 
you'd  be  ashamed  to  do  anything  to  help  him,  after  what  he 
did  to  your  father.  I  should  think  — " 

Wint   said   quickly :    "  He  has  nothing  to   do   with   this.     I 


CHASE  CHANGES  SIDES  225 

decided  to  do  it,  and  I  gave  the  order,  and  I'm  going  through 
with  it.  Congressman  Caretall  isn't  in  this  at  all." 

The  elder  Chase  smiled  and  said :  "  You  don't  understand, 
Wint.  I've  known  him  longer.  He's  absolutely  without  prin 
ciple  or  scruple.  You  know,  for  instance,  that  he's  a  wet  man ; 
hut  he's  doing  this  for  his  own  ends,  using  you  — " 

Wint  protested :  "  He's  not  doing  this.     I'm  doing  it." 

Mrs.  Chase  cried :  "  I  should  think  you'd  be  ashamed,  Wint, 
to  do  anything  against  your  own  father.  He's  been  a  good 
father  to  you,  Wint.  You  know  he  — " 

Wint  cut  in,  almost  pleading:  "  But,  mother,  you  said  yourself 
this  was  a  good  thing.  To  clean  up  Hardiston.  And  father's 
always  been  in  favor  of  it." 

"  That  was  before  I  understood  that  Congressman  Caretall 
was  doing  it  to  hurt  your  father.  I  don't  think  anything  is 
good  that  hurts  your  father,  Wint.  You  ought  not  to  say  that. 
You  know  I  — " 

"  But  he's  not  doing  it  to  hurt  dad,  mother.  I  told  you 
that.  I'm  doing  it  myself;  he's  not  doing  it  at  all." 

"  Your  father  understands  these  things  better  than  you, 
Wint.  Didn't  he  tell  you  Congressman  Caretall  was  just  using 
you?  I  shouldn't  think  you'd  be  willing  to — " 

The  elder  Chase  said  uneasily :  "  I  know  him  better  than  you, 
Wint." 

Wint  pushed  back  his  chair  and  looked  steadily  at  the  older 
man.  "  You  talk  like  V.  R.  Kite,  dad,"  he  said. 

Chase  confessed  his  guilt  by  the  vehemence  of  his  protesta 
tions.  "  That's  not  so,  Wint.  And  in  any  case,  Kite  is  an 
honest  man  compared  to  Caretall.  He  plays  square  with  his 
friends,  at  least.  That's  more  than  Amos  can  say." 

Wint  asked :  "  What  makes  you  think  Amos  is  playing  crooked 
now?  Not  that  he  has  anything  to  do  with  this.  .  .  ." 

"  I  know  him.  He's  always  crooked.  A  crooked,  double- 
crossing  politician." 

"  I'm  not  defending  Amos,"  Wint  said  stubbornly.  "  He's 
treated  you  badly.  But  he's  been  decent  to  me.  I'll  not  turn 
against  him.  And  anyway,  this  is  my  doing,  my  business. 
He's  not  in  it  at  all." 


226  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"You  said  he  was  backing  you." 

"  I  said  he  thought  I  was  doing  a  gbod  thing.  I  expected 
you  to  think  that,  too." 

Chase  flushed  uncomfortably.  "  Ordinarily,  I  would  say  so. 
If  you'd  done  this  without  prompting  from  him,  I  would  say 
so.  But  it's  significant  that  you  didn't;  that  you  waited  till 
he  came  home,  and  talked  to  you,  and  then  gave  your  orders." 

"  I'd  been  thinking  about  it  for  a  long  time." 

"  But  you  didn't  act  without  word  from  him,  Wint.  That's 
why  I  —  regret  it." 

Wint  asked  harshly:  "Listen!  Do  I  get  this  straight? 
You'd  have  me  let  them  go  on  selling  whisky  in  Hardiston 
just  for  fear  I  am  helping  Amos  by  stopping  them?  " 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  you  letting  Amos  use  you." 

"  Aside  from  that,  isn't  it  a  good  thing  to  clean  up  the  town, 
no  matter  what  the  motive?  " 

"  You'll  find  in  your  law  books  somewhere  the  statement  that 
the  motive  determines  the  deed,"  Chase  told  him. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  important  to  clean  up  Hardiston?  " 

"  I  think  it  important  not  to  cement  Amos  Caretall's  hold  on 
this  county,  and  this  town." 

Wint  said  angrily :  "  Forget  Amos.  Forget  he  exists.  I'm 
asking  a  flat  question.  Why  don't  you  answer  it?  " 

Mrs.  Chase  interposed:  "Don't  you  talk  to  your  father  so, 
Wint.  Don't  you  do  it.  He  knows  best  what's  good  for  you, 
and  for  Hardiston,  and  for  everybody.  You  know  he  — " 

"  Is  whisky  good  for  Ote  Runns?  "  Wint  demanded. 

"  Well,  I  guess  it  doesn't  do  him  any  hurt.  It's  not  as  if 
he  had  a  wife  and  children,  Wint,  you  know.  You  ought  to  do 
what  your  father  says.  He  — " 

Wint  faced  the  older  man.  "Well,"  he  asked,  "what  is 
it  you  say  I  should  do,  dad?  In  plain  language.  Just  what 
do  you  claim  I  ought  to  do?  " 

"  Refuse  to  let  Amos  Caretall  make  you  his  tool,"  Chase 
said  steadily. 

"  Let  Hardiston  wallow  in  booze?  " 

"  That's  beside  the  point.     Amos  is  the  point." 

Wint  got  up   swiftly.     "  Amos  is   not  the  point,"  he  said. 


CHASE  CHANGES  SIDES  227 

"  Hardiston's  the  point.  Hardiston's  the  point,  and  I'm  the 
point,  too.  If  whisky  is  good  for  Hardiston,  the  town  ought 
to  have  it.  If  lawbreaking  is  good  for  Hardiston,  the  law- 
breaking  ought  to  be  permitted  to  go  on.  But  if  it's  right  and 
decent  to  keep  the  law,  then  I'm  right.  And  if  it's  right  to 
leave  booze  alone,  then  I'm  right.  And  if  I  think  what  I'm 
doing  is  right,  I  ought  to  go  on  with  it;  and  if  I  think  it's 
wrong,  I  ought  to  drop  it.  Amos  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
Anyway,  a  bad  man  doing  good  things  is  a  good  man.  If  Amos 
were  doing  this,  the  fact  that  he's  a  crook  wouldn't  make  it 
crooked.  The  whole  thing  works  the  other  way.  If  Amos  is 
doing  this,  and  it's  a  good  thing  to  do,  then  so  far  as  this  is 
concerned,  Amos  is  a  good  man." 

He  flung  up  his  hand.  "  I  don't  mean  to  hurt  you,  dad.  I 
think  you're  wrong  on  this.  I  can't  believe  you  want  me  to 
back  down." 

Chase  had  his  share  of  stubbornness,  of  the  pride  which 
had  been  a  pitfall  before  Wint's  feet.  He  was  too  stubborn 
to  admit  himself  in  the  wrong.  He  said  swiftly: 

"I  do  want  you  to  back  down.  Call  off  Radabaugh.  Tell 
Amos  he  can't  make  a  monkey  out  of  you,  Can't  get  you  to  pull 
his  chestnuts  out  of  the  fire.  .  .  .  Stand  on  your  own  feet. 
That's  what  I  advise  you  to  do,  Wint." 

Wint  looked  his  father  in  the  eye  for  a  moment;  then  he 
shook  his  head  as  though  to  brush  away  a  veil.  "  I'm  sorry," 
he  said.  "  I  mean  to  fight  it  out  on  this  line.  Stick  to  it." 

Chase  said  nothing.  Mrs.  Chase,  silenced  by  the  tension  in 
the  atmosphere,  looked  from  father  to  son  with  wide  eyes, 
and  she  was  trembling.  After  a  little,  Wint  asked  gently: 

"Does  this  mean  —  a  break,  father?  Does  it  mean  for  me 
to  get  out  of  here?  " 

Chase  got  to  his  feet  in  swift  protest.  "  No,  no,  Wint,  not 
that."  For  a  moment,  he  had  an  overpowering  impulse  to 
open  his  heart,  promise  Wint  his  support,  offer  the  boy  his 
hand.  But  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  do  it.  The  stubborn, 
prideful  streak  was  strong  in  him.  He  fought  down  the  im 
pulse,  said  simply :  "  We  can  disagree  without  fighting,  I  guess. 
That's  all." 


228  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  You  mean  we're  on  opposite  sides  of  the  fence  in  this,  dad  ? 
You  really  mean  that?  " 

"  Yes." 

Wint's  voice  was  wistful.     "I  —  counted  on  you." 

Chase  flung  toward  the  door.  "I  can't  help  it,  Wint,"  he 
said  harshly.  "  I  can't  link  up  with  Amos  Caretall.  Not  for 
any  man." 

When  the  door  shut  behind  him,  Wint  stood  still  for  a  little, 
thinking  hard.  Then  his  mother  touched  his  arm,  and  he  looked 
down  and  saw  that  she  was  crying  with  fright. 

"  Wint,"  she  pleaded,  "  don't  you  go  quarreling  with  your 
father  again.  Don't  you,  Wint.  Please  ...  He  couldn't 
stand  it.  Not  again,  Wint.  I  told  Mrs.  Hullis  when  you  were 
gone  before  — " 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  affectionately;  and  he  smiled. 
"  There,  mother,  it's  all  right,"  he  said.  "  Dad  and  I  are  all 
right.  Don't  you  worry.  We  understand  each  other." 

"  I  told  Mrs.  Hullis  he  couldn't  stand  it  to  have  you  go  away 
again  — " 

"  I'm  not  going  away,"  Wint  promised. 

"Don't     you  .  .  ."     she     begged.     "Don't     you     go,     any 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   TRIUMVIRATE 

A  CONSCIOUSNESS  of  having  acted  unworthily  does  not 
make  for  a  man's  peace  of  mind.  The  plain  truth  of 
the  matter  is  that  after  his  talk  with  Wint  at  supper  that 
night,  Winthrop  Chase,  Senior,  was  ashamed  of  himself.  Not 
that  he  admitted  it,  even  in  his  thoughts;  but  it  was  obvious 
enough  in  his  uneasiness,  his  inability  to  sit  still,  his  restless 
movements  here  and  there  about  the  sitting  room.  Wint  was 
not  blind.  He  guessed  something  of  what  was  passing  in  his 
father's  mind,  and  wished  there  were  some  way  for  them  to 
come  together.  But  there  seemed  no  move  he  could  make  to 
that  end. 

The  older  man  at  last  announced  that  he  was  going  to  walk 
downtown  for  the  mail.  Wint  said :  "  Good  idea.  I'll  go 
along."  But  Chase  said: 

"  I've  got  to  see  a  man,"  and  Wint  understood  that  his  father 
did  not  want  his  company,  so  he  stayed  at  home  when  the 
older  man  departed. 

Chase  wanted  to  see  Kite.  He  had  no  definite  idea  why  he 
wanted  to  see  Kite,  but  he  felt  the  need  of  reassurance  from 
some  one,  and  he  knew  Kite  would  reassure  him  as  to  what 
he  had  done.  So  he  went  downtown  to  find  Kite  and  talk  to 
him.  The  Bazaar  was  closed.  He  telephoned  Kite's  home,  and 
the  old  woman  who  kept  house  for  him  said  Mr.  Kite  had  gone 
uptown  to  see  Mr.  Routt.  So  Chase  went  to  the  building  on 
the  second  floor  of  which  Routt  had  his  office,  and  saw  a  light 
behind  the  drawn  blind  in  Routt's  window  and  went  up.  He 
heard  their  voices  inside,  Kite's  and  Routt's,  before  he  tried 
the  door.  The  door  was  locked;  and  when  he  touched  the 
knob,  silence  fell  inside.  Routt  called:  "Hello,  who's  there?  " 

Chase  told  him,  and  Routt  said :  "  In  a  minute,"  and  unlocked 

229 


230  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

the  door  and  let  him  in.     Chase  saw  Kite  sitting  by  the  desk, 
his  side  whiskers  bristling  angrily. 

There  are  no  modern  office  buildings  in  Hardiston.  Routt's 
office  was  on  the  second  floor  of  the  three-story  building  at  the 
corner  of  Main  and  Broad  streets.  There  was  a  hardware  store 
on  the  first  floor,  and  a  lodge  room  on  the  floor  above  Routt's 
office.  Routt  and  three  or  four  others  had  quarters  on  the 
second  floor.  Routt's  office  faced  the  street;  a  single  room  with 
a  hot-air  register  in  the  wall  near  the  door.  There  were  shelves 
around  the  wall,  with  a  meager  library  of  brand-new  and  Jittle- 
used  law  books.  Routt's  desk  was  shiny,  yellow  oak.  A 
diploma,  or  perhaps  a  certificate  of  admission  to  the  bar,  framed 
in  mission  oak,  hung  on  the  wall  above  the  desk.  There  was 
an  electric  light  in  the  middle  of  the  ceiling,  and  it  shed  a 
bald  and  naked  light  over  the  three  men  who  faced  each  other 
in  the  room. 

Kite  said :  "  Hello,  Chase,"  and  Chase  responded  to  the  greet 
ing.  Routt  asked: 

"  How'd  you  happen  to  drop  in?     Glad  to  see  you." 

"  I  was  looking  for  Kite,"  Chase  said.  "  Heard  he  was  with 
you." 

Kite  asked  eagerly:  "Looking  for  me,  Chase?  Good  news? 
What's  happened?  " 

Chase  looked  at  Routt,  with  a  curious,  dull  inquiry.  The 
man  was  moving  in  something  like  a  daze;  he  had  not  yet 
found  himself  in  this  new  alliance.  He  was  hating  himself 
for  opposing  Wint,  and  he  was  flogging  his  courage  to  the 
venture.  He  wondered  what  Kite  and  Jack  Routt  were  doing 
together.  Routt  was  a  Caretall  man  in  politics;  also  he  was 
a  friend  of  Wint.  Chase  tried  to  puzzle  this  out,  and  Kite 
asked  again: 

"What's  happened?" 

"I  —  spoke  to  Wint,"  Chase  said  slowly. 

Routt  asked:  "About  withdrawing  his  orders  to  Radabaugh? 
He'll  never  do  it." 

"  No,"  said  Chase.     "  He'll  never  do  it." 

Kite  cried  fiercely:  "He's  got  to.  He  doesn't  understand. 
Didn't  you  tell  him,  Chase?  Didn't  you  make  him  see?  " 


THE  TRIUMVIRATE  231 

"  I  couldn't  make  him  see  anything.     He  would  not  change." 

"He'll  never  change  unless  he's  forced  to,"  Routt  said;  and 
Chase  looked  at  the  young  man  and  asked  slowly: 

"  I  thought  you  and  Wint  were  friends,  Routt?  " 

"We  are,"  Rout  declared.  "He's  the  best  friend  I've  got. 
That's  why  I  don't  want  to  see  him  made  a  fool  of.  That's  why 
I  don't  want  to  see  Amos  make  a  fool  of  him.  You're  his  father, 
but  you  feel  the  same  as  I  do,  that  he's  wrong,  that  he's  got 
to  be  made  change  his  mind." 

"  I  thought  you  were  with  Amos,"  Chase  insisted  mildly. 

"  Amos  and  I  have  broken,"  said  Routt  hotly.  "  He  tried 
to  trick  me  as  he  tricks  every  one,  and  I  wouldn't  stand  for  it. 
That's  all.  I'm  out  to  even  things  with  him." 

Chase  looked  around  for  a  chair  and  sat  down.  Routt  sat 
on  the  desk.  Kite  had  not  risen  when  Chase  came  in.  The 
little  man  asked  Chase  now :  "  What  did  you  say  to  Wint  any 
way?  I  should  think  he'd  take  your  advice  before  he'd  take 
Caretall's." 

"  I  told  him  Caretall  was  using  him,  that  he  was  being  used 
to  play  politics." 

"Well,  what  did  he  say?" 

"  Said  this  wasn't  Amos's  doing  at  all.  Said  it  was  his  own 
idea,  that  he  had  given  the  orders,  that  he  meant  to  carry  them 
through.  Said,  even  if  it  were  Caretall's  move,  it  was  a  good 
thing,  and  he  was  for  it." 

Kite  snarled :  "  He's  damnably  moral,  all  of  a  sudden."  And 
Chase  felt  a  surge  of  resentment  at  the  other's  tone,  and  coun 
tered  : 

"  He's  right,  you  know.     Booze  is  dirty  business." 

"It's  my  business,"  Kite  snapped,  stamping  to  his  feet; 
and  if  Routt  had  not  intervened,  the  old  feud  between  Kite  and 
Chase  might  have  been  revived,  then  and  there.  But  Routt 
had  no  notion  of  permitting  a  break  between  these  strange  allies. 
He  said  cheerfully: 

"Sit  down,  Kite.  We're  not  talking  about  booze.  We're 
talking  about  Amos  Caretall.  We're  not  trying  to  settle  the 
moral  issue.  We're  trying  to  settle  Amos  Caretall's  hash. 
Question  is,  how  are  we  going  to  do  it?  " 


232  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"That's  right,"  Chase  agreed.  CaretalPs  name  was  like  an 
anchor,  to  which  he  could  make  fast  his  disturbed  thoughts. 
So  long  as  he  was  opposing  Amos,  he  could  not  go  wrong. 

Kite  sat  down,  thinking;  and  he  asked:  "You  say  Wint  told 
you  Amos  had  nothing  to  do  with  this,  Chase?  " 

"Yes.  He  probably  thinks  that's  true.  Caretall  got  around 
him,  somehow." 

Routt  said :  "  CaretalFs  a  shrewd  man,  he  can  get  around 
other  men.  He  knows  the  trick  of  it."  Kite  said  nothing. 
He  was  thinking  over  what  Chase  had  said.  Routt  continued: 
"  What  we  want  to  do  is  to  go  out  and  get  him." 

Chase  suddenly  found  the  atmosphere  of  this  room  unbear 
able;  he  wanted  to  get  out  in  the  air.  So  he  got  up,  and  said 
harshly:  "  I'm  with  you  on  that.  I'll  do  anything  I  can  against 
Amos.  Let  me  know  what  you  decide." 

Routt  said :  "  Don't  run  away.  Let's  talk  things  over."  But 
Chase  told  him  he  had  business  elsewhere;  and  Kite  made  no 
objection  to  his  going.  When  he  was  gone,  Routt  told  Kite: 

"  He'll  have  to  be  handled  carefully.  He's  naturally  a  dry 
man,  you  know." 

Kite  said  thoughtfully,  as  though  he  were  considering  another 
matter:  "Yes,  that's  so." 

"  I've  been  figuring  on  what  you  suggested  —  getting  a  handle 
to  control  Wint,"  Routt  told  him.  "  You  know,  I  think  there's 
a  way." 

"  To  get  something  on  Wint?  " 

"Yes.  He's  not  such  a  terribly  upright  young  man.  Any 
one's  foot  is  apt  to  slip." 

"You  mean  his  has  slipped?"  Kite  asked  eagerly.  Routt 
only  grinned. 

"  I'll  let  you  know  what  I  mean,  in  good  time,"  he  said. 

Kite  grunted.  It  was  evident  that  his  mind  was  busy  with 
another  angle  of  the  situation.  A  little  later,  still  abstracted, 
he  took  himself  away. 

While  he  walked  home,  he  turned  over  and  over  in  his 
thoughts  his  new  idea. 


CHAPTER  VI 

EVERY   MAN   HAS   HIS   PRICE 

KITE'S   new   idea   was   one  that   appealed   to   the  mean 
heart  of  the  man.     There  had  been  a  time  when  Kite 
was  bold  as  a  lion  in  evil-doing;  but  as  he  grew  old, 
he  was  becoming  timorous.     He  had,  now,  no  stomach  for  a 
fight,   talk  as   ferociously   as  he  pleased.     He  wanted   life  to 
move  easily  and  smoothly;   and  fighting  jarred  on  him.     He 
thought,  with  a  self-pitying  regret,  that  things  had  been  going 
so  comfortably.     It  was  a  shame  that  Wint  had  come  along 
and  started  all  this  trouble.     He  was  an  old  man,  not  made 
for  trouble. 

There  was  very  little  pride  in  Kite,  and  a  good  deal  of 
the  shamelessness  of  the  miser.  If  he  was  a  miser,  his  illicit 
business  was  his  hoarded  gold.  He  was  ready  to  go  to  any 
lengths  of  self-humiliation  to  protect  this  treasure.  He  would 
fight  if  he  had  to;  but  he  had  no  stomach  for  it.  There  must 
be  some  other  way. 

The  suggestion  of  that  other  way  had  come  from  Chase. 
When  Chase  first  warned  him  that  Amos  would  turn  Hardiston 
dry,  Kite  had  refused  to  believe;  when  Routt  repeated  the 
warning,  he  was  still  doubtful.  When  Wint  actually  gave  the 
orders  he  had  dreaded,  Kite  was  half  forced  to  agree  that 
Amos  had  tricked  him,  but  even  in  the  face  of  the  fact,  he  had 
still  clung  in  his  heart  to  the  hope  that  this  was  none  of  Care- 
tail's  doing,  and  that  the  two  who  had  warned  him  were  wrong. 

He  had  hoped  desperately  that  they  were  wrong,  because 
if  they  were  mistaken  there  was  a  chance  to  save  himself  without 
a  fight.  What  Chase  had  told  him  this  night  strengthened  his 
hope.  Wint,  Chase  said,  declared  Amos  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  case,  that  Amos  had  neither  advised  nor  prompted  his 
orders  to  Radabaugh,  and  that  the  whole  crusade  was  his  own 
idea  and  his  own  battle. 

233 


234  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

If  this  were  true,  if  Wint  were  actually  standing  on  his  own 
feet,  then  there  was  a  chance  of  coming  at  him  through  Amos. 
That  was  the  thought  from  which  Kite  took  hope.  He  and 
Amos  were,  on  the  surface,  allies  still.  Amos  would  not 
willingly  antagonize  him.  And  if  this  move  of  Wint's  were 
not  Amos's  doing,  then  Amos  might  be  willing  to  take  a  hand 
on  Kite's  behalf,  call  Wint  off,  return  things  to  their  original 
condition,  smooth  Kite's  existence  into  tranquillity  again. 

When  he  first  conceived  the  idea,  Kite  cast  it  aside  as  gro 
tesque  and  impossible.  But  it  returned  to  his  thoughts,  and 
his  hopes  fought  for  it,  until  he  convinced  himself  there  was 
something  in  it;  better  than  an  even  chance  in  his  favor; 
worth  trying,  certainly.  When  he  made  up  his  mind  to  this  — 
it  was  after  he  had  undressed  and  got  into  bed  that  night  — 
he  dropped  off  into  a  restless  sleep;  and  when  he  woke,  as 
his  habit  was,  at  daylight,  he  began  at  once  to  consider  what  he 
should  say  to  Amos. 

He  telephoned  Caretall  before  breakfast  and  asked  him  when 
he  could  see  him  to  talk  things  over.  Amos  told  him  good- 
naturedly  that  he  could  come  right  after  breakfast.  "  I'm 
taking  my  ease,  these  few  days,"  he  said.  "  Staying  at  home  in 
my  carpet  slippers,  and  smoking  my  pipe.  Drop  in  any  time." 

"  I'll  be  there  in  an  hour,"  Kite  told  him.  And  Amos  said 
that  was  all  right,  and  hung  up  the  receiver.  Immediately,  he 
telephoned  Peter  Gergue  to  come  right  over,  and  Peter  joined 
him  at  breakfast  in  ten  minutes.  It  was  not  even  necessary  for 
old  Maria  to  set  an  extra  plate  for  Peter.  Agnes  had  overslept 
—  she  nearly  always  did  oversleep  —  and  Amos  was  break 
fasting  alone,  with  Agnes's  empty  place  across  the  table  from 
him. 

Peter  sat  down  there,  and  Amos  helped  him  to  fried  eggs  and 
bacon,  and  Maria  gave  him  a  cup  of  coffee.  Amos  said  at 
once:  "Kite  just  called  up,  Peter.  He's  coming  over." 

Gergue  swallowed  a  gulp  of  coffee.  "  Guessed  he  would," 
he  assented.  "  Guessed  he'd  have  things  to  say  to  you." 

"What  do  you  guess  he's  got  to  say  to  me,  Peter?" 
Amos  asked.* 

"  He'll  want  you  to  call  Wint  off,  I'd  say." 


EVERY  MAN  HAS  HIS  PRICE  235 

Amos  looked  politely  tegretful,  as  though  he  were  talking 
to  Kite.  "  Why,  now,  you  know,  Wint's  his  own  boss.  He  does 
what  he  wants  to  do.  I  never  saw  any  one  that  could  run  Wint, 
did  you?  " 

"  Not  if  Wint  knew  it,  I  never  did." 

"What  have  you  heard,  Peter?  "  Amos  asked.  "What  did 
Kite  do  yest'day,  when  he  heard  the  sad  news?  " 

"  Lutcher  told  him,"  said  Peter.  "  Lutcher  says  he  was  wild. 
But  when  Jim  Radabaugh  saw  him,  he  kept  his  head,  and  said 
it  didn't  concern  him.  I  hear  he  had  some  talk  with  Jack 
Routt;  and  then  he  posted  off  down  to  the  furnace  to  see 
Chase." 

"To  see  Chase,  eh?" 

"  What  I  hear." 

"What  about,   Peter?" 

"  I  sh'd  guess  he  wanted  Chase  to  call  Wint  off.  Kite  don't 
like  a  fight,  you  know." 

Amos  nodded.  "  V.  R.  Kite,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "  is  a  lick 
spittle,  Peter.  That's  what  V.  R.  Kite  is.  I  don't  like  to  see 
Chase  mixing  with  him." 

"  You  know,"  said  Peter,  "  Chase  has  changed  some,  since  you 
put  the  laugh  on  him." 

"  Chase  is  all  right,"  said  Amos  surprisingly.  "  He's  had 
the  foolishness  knocked  out  of  him.  Peter,  he'll  make  a  good 
man,  before  he's  done." 

Peter  looked  at  Amos  sidewise  and  said  he  wouldn't  be  a  bit 
surprised. 

"  But  he  makes  a  mistake  to  tie  up  to  Kite,"  said  Amos. 

"Him  and  Kite  had  a  talk  with  Routt,  in  Jack's  office,  last 
night,"  said  Peter. 

Amos  chuckled.     "  Pete,  it  beats  me  how  you  find  out  things." 

"  I  don't  find  'em  out,"  said  Peter.  "  People  tell  me."  He 
rummaged  through  the  tangle  at  the  back  of  his  neck.  "  Looks 
like  people  aim  to  make  mischief,  so  they  tell  me  things  to 
tell  you  that'll  start  a  fight,  and  the  likes  of  that.  That's  the 

r  '4. " 
way  of  it. 

•"This  won't  start  a  fight,"  said  Amos.  "I'm  home  for  a 
rest." 


236  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Peter  looked  at  him  intently.     "  You  backing  Wint?  " 

"  No." 

"What?" 

"  Pete,"  said  Amos  thoughtfully,  "  this  was  Wint's  idea.  He 
figured  it  out,  the  right  thing  to  do.  He's  started  it.  It  won't 
hurt  him  a  bit  to  fight  it  out.  I'm  going  to  stand  by  and  yell: 
'  Go  it,  wife ;  go  it,  b'ar.'  That's  me  in  this,  Peter." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  tell  Kite?  " 

"  Going  to  tell  him  just  that,"  said  Amos. 

They  had  finished  breakfast  and  moved  into  the  sitting 
room  and  filled  their  pipes.  Agnes  came  downstairs  in  her 
kimono,  hair  flying,  and  kissed  Amos  and  pretended  to  be 
embarrassed  at  appearing  before  Peter  in  her  attractive  dis 
array.  Then  she  went  out  to  her  breakfast.  The  two  men 
smoked  without  speaking.  Amos  had  looked  after  his  daughter 
with  a  certain  trouble  in  his  eyes;  and  Peter  saw  it.  Peter  did 
not  like  Agnes. 

Peter  had  gone  before  Kite  arrived.-  Old  Maria  let  Kite 
in,  and  Amos  called  from  the  sitting  room: 

"  Right  in  here,  Kite.  Fm  too  darned  lazy  to  come  and  meet 
you.  Leave  your  hat  in  the  hall." 

Kite  obeyed  the  summons,  and  Amos  said  lazily:  "Take  a 
chair,  Kite.  Any  chair."  And  when  the  little  man  had  sat 
down :  "  Fine  day,  Kite.  I  tell  you,  there  isn't  any  place  that 
can  beat  Hardiston  in  May  that  I  know  of." 

Kite  said:  "That's  right,  Amos." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Amos  repeated.  "  They  can't  beat  old  Hardis 
ton."  He  lapsed  into  one  of  those  characteristic  silences, 
head  on  one  side,  squinting  idly  straight  before  him,  his  pipe 
hissing  in  his  mouth.  You  might  have  thought  there  were  no 
words  in  the  man.  Kite  said  impatiently: 

"  Amos,  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Amos  looked  at  him,  and  said  amiably:  "Well,  Kite,  you'll 
never  have  a  likelier  chance.  I  don't  aim  to  move  out  of  this 
chair." 

"Well,"  said  Kite  uneasily,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you  about 
young  Chase." 

"Mayor  Chase?" 


EVERY  MAN  HAS  HIS  PRICE  237 

"Yes.     Wint." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Amos,  without  any  curiosity. 

"  I  mean  to  say,"  Kite  explained,  "  I  want  to  talk  about  this 
move  of  his.  You've  heard  about  it." 

"  I  hadn't  heard  he'd  moved,"  said  Amos.  "  Thought  he  was 
living  with  his  paw.  Where's  he  gone  to  now?  " 

"  Damn  it,  Amos !  "  Kite  protested,  "  don't  fool  with  me.  You 
know  what  I  mean." 

"  Kite,"  said  Amos,  "  nobody  ever  knows  what  you  mean, 
even  when  you  say  it.  You're  such  an  excitable  man." 

"  Well,  who  wouldn't  get  excited?     I  tell  you,  this  is  a  — "     • 

"What  is?"  Amos  asked,  interrupting  without  seeming  to 
do  so. 

"  This  damned  idea  of  enforcing  a  fool  liquor  law." 

"Oh,  that,"  said  Amos. 

Kite  leaned  forward.  "  Is  it  your  doing,  Amos?  Did  you 
get  him  to  do  this?  Because  if  you  did  — " 

"Why,  man,"  said  Amos,  "'I'm  not  Wint's  boss." 

"You  elected  him." 

"  You  elected  him  as  much  as  me,  Kite.  And  I  heard  how 
he  called  you  a  buzzard.  If  he  calls  you  a  buzzard,  what  do 
you  think  he'd  call  me?  " 

"  I  hold  no  grudge  for  that,"  Kite  explained.  "  He  was 
drunk.  Fact  remains,  he's  friendly  with  you.  I  ask  you,  I'm 
asking  you  flatly:  Did  you  prompt  him  to  do  this,  or  tell  him 
to,  or  advise  him  to  in  any  way?  " 

"Well,"  said  Amos,  "if  you  ask  me,  I'll  say:  No." 

Kite  slapped  his  knee.     "  I  knew  it,"  he  exclaimed. 

"Who  says  I  did?  "  Amos  asked.     "Wint  say  I  did?  " 

"  No.  He  says  you  didn't.  Chase  and  Routt  claim  you 
did  it." 

"  Chase?  And  Jack  Routt?  Why,  now,  I  take  that  unkind," 
Amos  protested,  in  a  hurt  voice,  and  Kite  realized  that  he  had 
blundered,  and  hurried  past  the  danger  point. 

"  Well,  if  you  didn't  advise  Wint  to  do  this,  what  are  you 
going  to  do  now?  Back  him  in  his  fight?  " 

"You  know,"  said  Amos,  "Pete  Gergue  asked  me  just  that. 
Ever  hear  the  story  about  the  lady  and  the  bear,  Kite?  Bear 


238  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

chased  the  lady  around  the  tree,  and  the  lady's  husband  was 
up  the  tree.  Lady  yells  to  him  to  come  down  and  kill  the 
bear;  but  husband  just  sets  on  his  branch,  out  of  reach,  and 
yells:  '  Go  it,  wife;  go  it,  b'ar.'  Ever  hear  that  story,  Kite?  " 

Kite  chuckled  without  any  mirth  in  his  dry  old  eyes.  "  No," 
he  said. 

"  That  man  didn't  figure  to  play  any  favorites,"  Amos  ex 
plained.  "  And  neither  do  I.  Ain't  often  I  get  a  chance  to 
set  back  and  watch  a  fight.  This  time,  I'm  going  to.  On  the 
sidelines.  That's  me,  Kite." 

Kite  protested  instantly.  "That's  not  the  fair  thing,  Amos. 
You  and  I  worked  together  to  put  him  in  there,  with  the 
understanding  he'd  let  the  liquor  business  alone." 

Amos  lifted  his  hand.  "  Understanding  was  that  Wint 
weren't  likely  to  monkey  with  it.  You  thought  so.  That's 
why  you  was  willing  to  help  me.  I  didn't  make  any  promises, 
nor  any  predictions,  Kite." 

"  But,  damn  it,"  Kite  insisted,  "  you  ought  to  be  willing  to 
help  me  out.  I  helped  you  out." 

"  It  would  hurt  me,  Kite,  to  know  I  sanctioned  nonenf  orce- 
ment." 

"Nobody  would  know." 

"They'd  find  out.  Things  like  that  do  get  out,  you  know, 
Kite." 

The  little  man  tugged  at  his  side  whiskers  feverishly. 
"  Amos,"  he  pleaded,  "  isn't  there  anything  you  can  do  for 
me?  This  is  bad  business.  I  can't  stand  it.  I  won't  stand  it. 
Isn't  there  anything  you  can  do?  " 

Amos  considered,  then  he  sighed,  and  said  good-naturedly: 
"Kite,  you're  an  awful  pest,  stirring  me  up  when  I'm  com 
fortable." 

"  You've  got  to  do  something." 

"  We-ell,  I'll  tell  you.  I'll  take  you  to  see  Wint.  You  can 
put  it  up  to  him.  That's  the  best." 

"You'll   back  me  up?" 

Amos  shook  his  head.  "  You  and  him  can  have  it  out.  I'll 
not  yell  for  either  of  you." 


EVERY  MAN  HAS  HIS  PRICE  239 

Kite  protested:  "A  lot  of  good  that  will  do." 

Amos  shrugged  his  big  shoulders.  "  Well  .  .  ."  Kite  got 
up  hurriedly. 

"All  right,"  he  agreed,  before  Amos  could  withdraw  his 
offer.  "All  right,  come  on." 

Amos  looked  ruefully  at  his  feet,  and  wiggled  his  toes  in 
his  comfortable  slippers.  "  I  declare,  Kite,  I  hate  to  put  on 
shoes." 

"  Damn  it,  man,  it's  your  own  offer,"  Kite  protested ;  and 
Amos  admitted  it,  and  groaned: 

"All  right,  I'll  come." 

Wint  was  in  a  cheerful  humor,  that  morning.  He  had  been 
depressed  by  his  father's  attitude,  disappointed  that  the  elder 
Chase  chose  to  oppose  him.  But  at  the  same  time,  the  op 
position  exhilarated  him.  After  his  father  left  the  house,  he 
went  to  see  Joan  for  an  hour;  and  without  over-applauding 
the  step  he  had  taken,  she  spoke  of  the  trouble  and  the  opposition 
he  would  face,  and  the  prospect  pleased  Wint.  He  took  a 
cheerful  delight  in  opposing  people.  He  was  never  so  good- 
natured  as  when  he  was  fighting. 

So  Amos  and  Kite  found  Wint  amiably  glad  to  see  them 
both.  Amos  sat  on  the  broad  window  ledge,  his  back  to  the 
light,  his  face  somewhat  shadowed.  Wint  made  Kite  sit  down 
near  his  desk;  he  himself  tilted  his  chair  back  against  one  of  the 
leaves  of  the  desk,  and  put  his  feet  on  an  open  drawer,  and 
asked  what  their  errand  was. 

"  Kite  wanted  to  see  you,"  said  Amos.  "  Asked  me  to  come 
along." 

"No  need  of  that,  Kite,"  Wint  said  good-naturedly.  "I 
don't  keep  an  office  boy.  Anybody  can  see  me  any  time." 

Kite  shifted  uneasily  in  his  seat,  not  quite  sure  what  he 
meant  to  say.  Amos  prompted  him  from  the  window.  "  Kite 
don't  think  you  ought  to  shut  down  on  him,"  he  said. 

Wint  looked  surprised.  "Shut  down  on  him?  What's  the 
idea,  Kite?  " 

Kite  said,  in  a  flustered  way :  "  It's  not  so  personal  as  that. 


240  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

You  know,  I'm  by  conviction  a  believer  in  the  sale  of  liquor. 
I  believe  the  people  of  Hardiston  agree  with  me.  I'm  sorry 
to  hear  you've  taken  steps  to  stop  the  sale." 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Wint  cheerfully,  "  the  town  voted  against 
it.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  that.  I'm  just  enforcing  the 
law." 

Kite  smiled  weakly.  "  There  are  laws,  and  laws,"  he  said. 
"  Some  laws  are  not  meant  to  be  enforced.  The  people  of 
Hardiston  objected  to  the  open  saloon;  they  did  not  object  to 
the  unobtrusive  and  inoffensive  sale." 

"Oh!  "said  Wint. 

"  You  didn't  object  to  it  yourself,"  Kite  reminded  him. 
"  Isn't  that  so?  " 

He  expected  Wint  to  be  confused;  but  Wint  only  laughed. 
"  I  should  say  I  didn't,"  he  admitted.  "  I  liked  it  as  well  as 
any  one.  Same  time,  this  isn't  a  question  of  liking;  it's  a 
question  of  the  law."  He  leaned  forward  with  a  certain  jeer 
ing  earnestness  in  his  voice.  "  Why,  Mr.  Kite,  if  I  didn't  en 
force  the  law,  Hardiston  people  could  remove  me  for  misfea 
sance  in  office,  or  something  like  that." 

Kite  said :  "  Bosh !  "  impatiently.  And  Wint  asked  him  sud 
denly  : 

"  What's  your  interest  in  this?  " 

"  That  of  a  citizen." 

"  Oh,  I  know  you  don't  sell  it  yourself,"  said  Wint,  meaning 
just  the  contrary.  "  But,  Mr.  Kite,  if  you  have  any  friends 
in  the  business,  tell  them  to  get  out  of  it.  It's  dead,  in  Hardis 
ton.  Dead  and  gone." 

Kite  said  weakly:  "Amos  and  I  came  here  to  try  and  make 
you  change  your  mind  about  that." 

Wint  looked  at  Amos.  "That  so?  "  he  asked.  "You  think 
I  ought  to  back  down?  " 

"  '  Go  it,  wife;  go  it,  b'ar,'  "  said  Amos  cheerfully.  "  That's 
me." 

"Not  taking  sides?" 

"  No." 

Kite  explained:  "Amos  and  I  worked  together  to  elect  you, 
you  know." 


EVERY  MAN  HAS  HIS  PRICE  241 

Wint  eyed  him  blandly.  "  Well,  I'm  much  obliged.  But  I 
don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  — " 

"  You  owe  us  some  gratitude." 

"  I'm  grateful." 

"There's  a  moral  obligation." 

Wint  grinned.  "  Kite,  I'm  afraid  you're  an  Indian  giver. 
I'm  afraid  you  elected  me,  thinking  you  could  use  me.  But  I 
didn't  ask  to  be  elected,  so  I  don't  see  — " 

Hopelessness  was  settling  down  on  V.  R.  Kite;  hopelessness, 
and  the  desperate  energy  of  a  cornered  rat.  There  was  no 
shame  in  him,  and  no  scruple.  Also,  there  was  very  little 
wisdom  in  the  buzzard-like  man.  He  was  to  prove  this  before 
their  eyes. 

"  Wint,"  he  said,  "  Amos  and  I  are  practical  men.  You're 
practical,  too,  aren't  you?  There's  no  place  for  dreams  in 
this  world,  Wint.  It's  a  hard  world.  You  understand  that." 

"You  find  it  a  hard  world?  Why,  Kite,  I  think  the  world 
is  a  pretty  good  sort  of  a  place.  That's  the  way  it  strikes 
me." 

((   T  ?» 

"  Maybe  it's  your  own  fault  you  find  it  hard." 

Kite  brushed  the  suggestion  away.  He  was  obsessed  with 
a  new  idea,  a  last  hope.  He  said :  "  Wint,  if  you  drop  this, 
Amos  and  I  can  do  a  lot  for  you." 

"You  and  Amos?"  Wint  looked  at  Amos  again.  "How 
about  it,  Congressman?  " 

"  '  Go  it,  wife ;  go  it,  b'ar,'  "  Amos  repeated  imperturbably. 

"  What  I  mean,"  said  Kite,  "  is  that  we  can  send  you  to  the 
legislature,  or  anything." 

"  Why,  I'm  not  looking  for  anything,"  said  Wint  mildly. 

Kite  snapped :  "  Every  man  has  his  price."  And  when  he 
met  Wint's  level  eyes,  and  knew  he  was  committed,  he  went  on 
hurriedly:  "I  know  that.  If  politics  isn't  yours,  something 
else  is.  Speak  out,  man.  What  do  you  — " 

Wint  asked  curiously,  and  without  anger:  "What's  the  idea, 
Kite?  " 

"  I  could  give  you  a  start  in  business.  Help  you.  .  .  .  I'm 
a  business  man,  you  understand.  Anything.  .  .  ." 


242  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Wint  laughed.     "  You're  too  vague." 

Kite  looked  at  Amos.  He  looked  at  him  so  steadily  that 
Amos  got  down  from  the  window  seat,  and  whistled  softly 
under  his  breath,  and  walked  out  of  the  office  into  the  council 
chamber  above  the  fire-engine  house.  He  shut  the  door  behind 
him.  Kite  leaned  toward  Wint.  "Five  hundred?  "  he  asked 
huskily. 

Wint  chuckled.  "  I  say,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  had  no  idea  there 
was  any  money  in  this  job." 

"  A  thousand.  .  .  ." 

"  I've  always  wanted  to  know  what  it  felt  like  to  be  bribed." 

"A  thousand,  Wint?     For  God's  sake.  .  .  ." 

Wint  shook  his  head,  still  perfectly  good-humored. 
"There's  no  question  about  it,  Kite,"  he  said.  "You  surely 
are  an  old  buzzard.  Get  out  of  my  nest,  you  evil  bird!  " 

Kite  protested:  "Wint,  listen  to—" 

"  Damn  you !  "  said  Wint,  still  without  heat,  "  do  you  want 
me  to  throw  you  out  the  window?  " 

Kite  got  up.  Wint  had  not  even  taken  his  feet  down  from 
their  perch.  Kite  said :  "  You'll  change  your  — " 

Wint's  feet  banged  the  floor;  and  Kite  stopped,  and  he  went 
swiftly  to  the  door.  In  the  doorway,  he  turned  and  looked 
back,  his  dry  old  face  working.  He  seemed  to  want  to  speak. 
But  without  a  word,  he  turned  and  went  away. 

Amos  strolled  back  in.  Wint  looked  up  at  him  and  chuckled. 
But  Amos  looked  serious. 

"  Went  away  all  rumpled  up,  didn't  he?  "  Wint  commented. 
"  But  he  didn't  have  a  word  to  say." 

Amos  nodded.  "  Not  a  word  to  say,"  he  agreed.  "  But, 
Wint,"  he  added,  "  knowing  Kite  like  I  do,  I  wish  he  had." 

"Wish  he  had  had  a  word?" 

"  I  never  was  much  afiaid  of  a  barking  dog,"  said  the  Con 
gressman. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ANOTHER  WORD  AS   TO   HETTY 

IF  Wint  had  expected  immediate  conflict,  he  was  to  be  dis 
appointed.  For  after  Kite  left  his  office  that  day,  noth 
ing  happened;  neither  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  the 
next.  Amos  told  Wint  that  Kite  would  strike,  in  his  own  time, 
and  strike  below  the  belt.  Wint  laughed  and  said  he  was 
ready  to  fight,  foul  or  fair.  But  —  neither  foul  blow  nor 
fair  was  struck.  Radabaugh  reported  that  his  orders  had  been 
obeyed.  Lutcher  had  left  town,  temporarily,  it  was  said.  His 
rooms  ofT  the  alley  were  locked,  and  he  had  gone  so  far  as  to 
give  Radabaugh  a  key,  so  that  the  marshal  might  make  sure, 
now  and  then,  that  Lutcher's  store  of  drinkables  was  not  dis 
turbed.  One  shipment  did  come  in  for  Mrs.  Moody.  It  was 
labeled  "  Canned  Goods " ;  but  Jim  Radabaugh  made  it  his 
business  to  inspect  all  sorts  of  goods  consigned  to  Mrs.  Moody, 
and  he  found  this  particular  box  contained  goods  in  bottles 
instead  of  cans.  He  emptied  the  bottles  into  the  creek,  across 
the  railroad  tracks  from  the  station,  and  told  Mrs.  Moody  about 
it.  She  threw  a  stick  of  firewood  at  him,  then  wept  with  rage 
because  he  dodged  it  successfully. 

For  the  rest,  Hardiston  was  quiet.  The  lunch-cart  man  whom 
Radabaugh  had  suspected  took  his  cart  and  left  town.  Kite 
met  Wint  on  the  street  and  greeted  him  as  pleasantly  as  usual. 
Jack  Routt  cultivated  him,  and  joked  him  about  his  ideas  of 
morality.  One  night,  at  Routt's  home,  he  offered  Wint  a  drink. 
Wint  looked  thoughtfully  through  the  smoke  of  his  pipe  as 
though  he  had  not  heard.  When  Routt  repeated  the  offer, 
Wint  declined  politely. 

The  business  of  being  Mayor  occupied  very  little  of  Wint's 
time.  Early  in  June,  Foster,  the  city  solicitor,  brought  a 
stranger  to  see  Wint  about  a  street  carnival  which  wanted  to 

243 


244  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

come  to   Hardiston  the   last  week   in   June.     Wint   agreed   to 
grant   the   permits   necessary. 

"You  understand,"  he  told  the  man,  "that  this  is  a  dry 
town." 

The  stranger  winked,  and  said  he  understood.  Wint  shook 
his  head  gravely.  "  I'm  afraid  you  don't  understand,"  he 
said.  "  This  is  a  dry  town.  There's  no  booze  sold  here. 
Last  summer,  I  remember,  there  was  some  selling  in  connection 
with  your  carnival,  here.  If  you  try  that  this  time,  I'll  have 
to  close  you  up." 

The  man  looked  surprised  and  disgusted.  "  What  is  this,  a 
Sunday  school?  "  he  demanded. 

"  No,"  said  Wint.     "  Just  a  dry  town.*' 

"  How  about  the  games?  " 

Wint  smiled  good-naturedly.  "  Oh,  don't  make  them  too  raw. 
I've  no  objection  to  '  The  cane  you  ring,  that  cane  you  get.' ': 

"  Hell!  "  said  the  man.     "  We  won't  make  chicken  feed." 

"  You  don't  have  to  come." 

But  the  stranger  said  they  would  come,  all  right.  After  he 
had  gone,  Wint  told  Foster  the  carnival  would  bear  watching. 
Foster  agreed,  but  said  the  merchants  wanted  it.  "  Brings 
the  farmers  to  town  every  day,  instead  of  just  Saturday,  you 
know." 

"  I  know,"  said  Wint.     "  Well,  let  them  come." 

After  a  week  of  quiet,  Wint  decided  that  Kite  and  his  allies 
had  put  the  lid  on.  "  But  they're  just  waiting,"  Amos  warned 
him.  "  Waiting  till  they  get  a  toe  hold  on  you,  somehow. 
Watch  your  step,  Wint." 

Wint  said  he  was  watching.  "  I  wish  they'd  start  some 
thing,"  he  said.  "  Hot  weather's  dull,  with  no  excitement." 

"  There'll  be  enough  excitement,"  Amos  assured  him. 

Routt  walked  home  with  Wint  one  afternoon,  talking  over 
a  proposition  that  he  had  brought  up  a  day  or  two  before. 
Since  Wint  was  going  to  be  a  lawyer,  he  said,  they  ought  to 
go  in  together.  Wint  was  already  so  well  advanced  in  his 
reading  that  Routt  thought  in  another  year  or  eighteen  months 
he  could  take  the  examinations.  "  There's  a  big  practice  wait 
ing  for  the  right  people  down  here,"  he  told  Wint  enthusias- 


ANOTHER  WORD  AS  TO  HETTY  245 

tically.  "  Dick  Hoover  and  I  are  going  to  get  together  when 
his  father  dies.  The  old  man  is  pretty  feeble.  You  come  in 
with  us.  We'll  do  things,  Wint." 

Wint  was  pleased  and  somewhat  flattered  by  the  suggestion, 
and  thought  well  of  Routt  for  it.  But  he  only  said,  good- 
naturedly,  that  it  was  still  a  long  way  off,  and  that  there 
would  be  times  enough  to  talk  about  the  matter  when  he  was 
admitted  to  the  bar.  Nevertheless,  Routt  dwelt  on  it  insistently, 
so  insistently  that  instead  of  turning  aside  toward  his  own  home 
at  the  usual  place,  he  came  on  toward  Wint's  father's  house, 
still  talking.  It  did  not  occur  to  Wint  that  there  was  any  pur 
pose  in  Routt's  thus  accompanying  him.  He  had  heard  that 
Routt  and  Kite  had  been  seen  together,  and  asked  Jack  about 
it.  Routt  explained  that  he  had  to  keep  in  touch  with  all 
sorts.  A  mixture  of  business  and  politics,  he  said,  and  Wint 
was  satisfied. 

When  they  came  in  sight  of  the  house,  it  was  still  an  hour 
before  supper  time;  and  Hetty  Morfee  was  sweeping  down  the 
front  steps  and  the  walk  to  the  gate.  They  saw  her  while 
they  were  still  half  a  block  away,  and  Routt  said  casually: 

"  Hetty  still  working  for  your  mother,  I  see." 

Wint  nodded.     "Yes;  I  guess  she's  pretty  good." 

Routt    agreed.     "  If    she'd    only    keep    straight.     But.  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  think  she's  that  kind,"  said  Wint. 

"  I  hope  not,"  Routt  assented.  "  Hope  she  doesn't  —  get 
into  trouble.  If  she  ever  did,  in  this  town.  .  .  ." 

Wint  said  nothing;  and  Routt  added:  "She'd  need  a  friend, 
all  right."  And  again :  "  She'd  need  some  one  to  take  her  part. 
But  he'd  be  in  Dutch,  whoever  he  was." 

He  looked  at  Wint  sidewise.  They  were  near  the  gate  now, 
and  Wint  said :  "  Come  in  and  have  supper." 

Routt  shook  his  head.     "Not  to-night." 

Hetty  looked  up,  at  their  approach,  and  Wint  called: 
"  Hello,  Hetty." 

She  said:  "Hello,  Wint."  Routt  repeated  Wint's  greeting, 
and  the  girl  looked  at  him  with  curiously  steady  eyes,  and 
said : 

"  Hello,  Jack." 


246  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Wint  thought,  vaguely,  that  there  was  some  repressed  feel 
ing  in  her  tone;  but  he  forgot  the  matter  in  bidding  Routt 
good-by,  and  went  inside,  leaving  Hetty  at  her  task,  while  Routt 
went  back  by  the  way  they  had  come.  Hetty  watched  him  go. 
He  did  not  look  toward  her,  did  not  turn  his  head.  She  watched 
him  out  of  sight. 

Jack  Routt  took  Agnes  Caretall  to  the  moving  pictures  that 
night.  Wint  saw  them  there.  He  was  with  Joan.  Afterward, 
Routt  and  Agnes  walked  home  together. 

Routt  did  most  of  the  talking,  on  that  homeward  walk.  Now 
and  then  Agnes  seemed  to  protest,  weakly,  at  something  he  was 
urging  her  to  do.  One  near  enough  might  have  heard  him 
speak  of  Wint.  But  there  was  no  one  near. 

When  they  reached  her  home,  there  was  a  light  in  the  sitting- 
room  window.  That  meant  Amos  was  there;  and  Routt  said 
he  would  not  go  in.  "  But  you'll  remember,  won't  you, 
Agnes,"  he  asked,  "  if  you  want  to  do  something  for  me?  " 

She  said  softly:  "  I  do  want  to  do  anything  for  you." 

He  laughed  at  her  gently.     "  How  about  him?  " 

"  I  hate  him,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  intensity  that  was  not 
pretty  to  see.  "  I  hate  him.  Hate  him,  I  say." 

"What's  he  ever  done  to  you?  "  Routt  teased;  and  she  said: 

"  Nothing,"  as  though  that  one  word  were  an  accusation. 

Routt  put  his  arm  around  her;  and  she  clung  to  him  with  a 
swift,  terrified  sort  of  passion,  as  though  afraid  to  let  him  go. 
It  seemed  to  embarrass  him;  he  freed  himself  a  little  roughly. 

He  left  her  standing  there  when  he  hurried  away. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AGNES   TAKES   A   HAND 

IF  Jack  Routt  had  meant  to  force  Hetty  into  Wint's  thoughts, 
he  had  succeeded.  Wint  was  not  conscious  of  this  when 
he  left  Jack  at  his  gate;  he  was  thinking  of  other  things. 
But  during  supper,  an  hour  later,  when  Hetty  came  into  the 
dining  room,  Wint  remembered  what  Jack  had  said;  and  he 
looked  at  the  girl  with  a  keen  scrutiny.  He  studied  her,  with 
out  seeming  to  do  so. 

He  was  surprised  to  discover  in  how  many  ways  Hetty  had 
changed,  since  she  came  to  work  for  his  mother.  The  changes 
were  slight,  they  had  been  gradual.  But  they  were  appallingly 
obvious,  under  Wint's  cool  appraisal  now.  He  tallied  them  in 
his  thoughts.  Her  laughter  had  been  gayly  and  merrily  defiant; 
it  was  sullen,  now,  and  mirthless.  Her  eyes  had  twinkled  with 
a  pleasant  impudence;  they  were  overcast,  these  days,  with  a 
troubling  shadow.  There  was  a  shadow,  too,  upon  the  clear, 
milky  skin  of  her  cheeks;  it  was  a  blemish  that  could  neither 
be  analyzed  nor  defined.  Yet  it  was  there. 

Hetty  had  slackened,  too.  Her  hair  was  no  longer  so 
smoothly  brushed,  so  crisply  drawn  back  above  her  ears.  It 
was,  at  times,  untidy.  Her  waists  were  no  longer  so  im 
maculate;  her  aprons  needed  pressing,  needed  soap  and  water, 
too,  at  times.  She  had  been  fresh  and  clean  and  good  to  look 
upon;  she  was,  in  these  days,  indefinably  soiled. 

After  supper  that  night,  Wint  went  out  into  the  kitchen 
where  Hetty  was  washing  dishes.  He  went  on  the  pretext  of 
getting  a  drink  of  water.  There  had  been  a  time,  a  few  months 
ago,  when  Hetty  would  have  turned  to  greet  him  laughingly, 
and  she  would  have  drawn  a  glass  of  water  and  given  it  to 
him.  But  she  did  neither  of  those  things  now.  Instead,  she 
moved  aside  without  looking  at  him,  while  he  held  the  glass 

247 


248  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

under  the  faucet;  and  when  he  stepped  back  to  drink,  she 
went  on  with  her  work,  shoulders  bent,  eyes  down. 

Wint  finished  the  glass  of  water,  and  put  the  glass  back  in 
its  place.  Then  he  hesitated,  started  to  go,  came  back.  At  last 
he  asked  pleasantly:  "Well,  Hetty,  how  are  things  going?  " 

She  looked  at  him  sideways,  with  a  swift,  furtive  glance. 
And  she  laughed  in  the  mirthless  way  that  was  becoming 
habitual.  "  Oh,  great,"  she  said,  and  her  tone  was  ironical. 

"What's   the  matter?"   Wint   asked.     "Anything  wrong?" 

"  Of  course  not.  Don't  be  a  kid.  Can't  I  have  a  grouch 
if  I  want  to?  " 

"  Sure,"  he  agreed  amiably.  "  I  have  'em,  myself.  Any 
thing  I  can  do  to  bring  you  out  of  your  grouch?  " 

"  No." 

"  If  there  is,"  he  said,  so  seriously  she  knew  he  meant  his 
offer.  "  If  there  is,  let  me  know.  Maybe  I  can  help." 

"  I'm  not  asking  help,"  she  told  him  sullenly. 

"  Is  there   anything   definite?     Anything   wrong?  " 

She  said,  with  a  hot  flash  of  her  dark  eyes  in  his  direc 
tion:  "I  told  you  no,  didn't  I?  What  do  you  have  to  butt 
in  for?  " 

Wint  considered  that,  and  he  filled  his  pipe  and  lighted  it; 
and  at  last  he  turned  to  the  door.  From  the  doorway  he 
called  to  her:  "  If  anything  turns  up,  Hetty,  count  on  me." 

She  nodded,  without  speaking;  and  he  left  her.  He  was 
more  troubled  than  he  would  have  cared  to  admit;  and  he  was 
convinced,  in  spite  of  what  Hetty  had  said,  that  there  was 
something  wrong. 

The  third  or  fourth  day  after,  Hardiston  meanwhile  moving 
along  the  even  tenor  of  its  way,  Wint  decided,  after  supper  at 
home,  that  he  wanted  to  see  Amos.  He  telephoned  the  Con 
gressman's  home,  and  Agnes  answered.  He  asked  if  Amos  was 
at  home. 

"He  went  uptown  for  the  mail,"  Agnes  told  him.  "But 
he  said  he'd  be  right  back.  He'll  be  here  in  a  few  minutes." 

"Tell  him  I'm  coming  down,  will  you?"  Wint  suggested, 
and  Agnes  promised  to  do  so.  Wint  took  his  hat  and  started 
for  Amos's  home.  He  thought  of  going  through  town  on  the 


AGNES  TAKES  A  HAND  249 

chance  of  picking  Amos  up  at  the  Post  Office;  but  the  mail  had 
been  in  for  an  hour,  and  he  decided  Amos  would  have  reached 
his  home  before  he  got  there,  so  he  went  on.  Wint  and  Amos 
lived  on  the  same  street,  but  at  different  ends  of  the  town. 
The  better  part  of  a  mile  lay  between  the  two  houses.  The 
stores  and  business  houses  were  the  third  point  of  a  triangle 
of  which  the  Chase  home  and  Amos's  formed  the  other  angles. 

The  night  was  warm  and  moonlit;  a  night  in  June.  The 
street  along  which  Wint's  route  lay  was  shaded  on  either  side 
by  spreading  trees,  and  lined  with  the  attractive,  comfort 
able  homes  of  Hardiston  folks  who  knew  what  homes  should 
be.  Wint  met  a  few  people:  A  young  fellow  with  a  flower  in 
his  buttonhole,  in  a  great  deal  of  a  hurry;  a  boy  and  a  girl 
with  linked  arms;  a  man,  a  woman  here  and  there.  At  one 
corner,  in  the  circle  of  radiance  from  a  sputtering  electric  light, 
a  dozen  boys  were  playing  "  Throw  the  Stick."  Wint  heard 
their  cries  while  he  was  still  a  block  or  two  away;  he  saw  their 
shadowy  figures  scurrying  in  the  dust,  or  crouching  behind 
bushes  and  houses  in  the  adjoining  yards.  As  he  passed  the 
light,  a  woman  came  to  the  door  of  one  of  the  houses  and  called 
shrilly: 

"Oh-h-h,  Willie-e-e-e-e!  " 

One  of  the  boys  answered,  in  reluctant  and  protesting  tones; 
and  the  woman  called: 

"  Bedti-i-ime."  Wint  heard  the  boy's  querulous  complaint; 
heard  his  fellows  jeer  at  him  under  their  breath,  so  that  his 
mother  might  not  hear.  The  youngsters  trained  laggingly 
homeward;  and  the  woman  at  the  door,  as  Wint  passed,  said 
implacably  to  her  son: 

"  You  go  around  to  the  pump  and  wash  your  feet  before  you 
come  in  the  house,  Willie." 

The  boy  went,  still  complaining.  And  Wint  grinned  as  he 
passed  by.  His  own  days  of  playing,  barefoot,  under  the 
corner  lights  were  still  so  short  a  time  behind  him  that  he  could 
sympathize  with  Willie.  Is  there  any  sharper  humiliation  than 
to  be  forced  to  come  home  to  bed  while  the  other  boys  are  still 
abroad?  Is  there  any  keener  discomfort  than  to  take  your  two 
dusty  feet,  with  the  bruises  and  the  cuts  and  the  scratches  all 


250  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

crudely  cauterized  with  grime,  and  stick  them  under  a  stream 
of  cold  water,  and  scrub  them  till  they  are  raw,  and  wipe  the 
damp  dirt  off  on  a  towel?  .  .  .  Wint  was  half  minded  to  turn 
back  and  join  that  game  of  "  Throw  the  Stick."  The  bewilder 
ing  moonlight,  the  warm  air  of  the  night  had  somewhat  turned 
his  head.  It  required  an  effort  of  will  to  keep  on  his  way. 

Agnes  opened  the  door  for  him  when  he  came  to  CaretalPs 
home.  "  Dad'll  be  here  in  a  minute  or  two,"  she  said.  "  Come 
right  in." 

Wint  hesitated.     "  Oh,  isn't  he  home  yet?  " 

"  No,  but  he  will  be."  She  laughed  at  him,  in  a  pretty,  invit 
ing  way  she  had.  "  I  won't  bite,  you  know." 

"  I  guess  not,"  he  agreed  good-naturedly.  "  But  it's  a  shame 
to  go  in  the  house,  a  night  like  this." 

She  said :  "  Wait  till  I  get  a  scarf.  Sit  down.  The  ham 
mock,  or  the  chairs.  I'll  be  right  out." 

So  Wint  sat  down,  where  the  moonlight  struck  through  the 
vines  about  the  porch  and  mottled  the  floor  with  silver. 
Agnes  came  out  with  something  indescribably  flimsy  about  her 
fair  head ;  and  Wint  laughed  and  said :  "  I  never  could  make 
out  why  girls  think  a  thing  like  that  keeps  them  warm." 

"  Oh,  but  it  does,"  she  insisted.  "  You've  no  idea  how  much 
warmth  there  is  in  it." 

He  shook  his  head,  laughing  at  her.  "  That  wouldn't  keep  a 
butterfly  warm  on  the  Sahara  Desert." 

She  protested:  "Now  you  just  see.  .  .  ."  And  she  moved 
lightly  around  behind  him  and  wrapped  the  film  of  silken  stuff 
about  his  head.  "  There,"  she  said,  and  looked  at  him,  and 
laughed  gayly.  "  You're  the  funniest-looking  thing." 

Wint  unwound  the  scarf  gingerly.  "  It  feels  like  cobwebs," 
he  said.  "  I  don't  see  how  you  can  wear  it.  Sticky  stuff." 

"  Men  are  always  afraid  of  things  like  cobwebs.  Always 
afraid  of  little  things." 

Wint  chuckled.     "What's  this?     New  philosophy  of  life?  " 

"  Can't  I  say  anything  serious?  " 

"Why,    sure.     I    don't   know   but   what  you're   right,    too." 

He  had  taken  one  of  the  chairs.     She  sat  down  in  the  ham- 


AGNES  TAKES  A  HAND  251 

mock.  "  Come  sit  here  with  me,"  she  invited.  "  That  chair's 
not  comfortable." 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right." 

She  stamped  her  foot.  "  I  should  think  you'd  do  what  I 
say  when  you  come  to  see  me." 

"  Matter  of  fact,  you  know,  I  came  to  see  your  father." 

"  Well,  you're  staying  to  see  me.  If  you  don't  sit  in  the 
hammock,  I'm  going  in  the  house  and  leave  you." 

Wint  held  up  his  hands  in  mock  consternation.  "  Heaven 
forbid."  He  sat  down  beside  her,  as  uncomfortable  as  a  man 
must  always  be  in  a  hammock;  and  she  leaned  away  from  him, 
half  reclining,  enjoying  his  discomfort.  He  could  see  her 
laughing  at  him  in  the  moonlight.  She  pointed  one  forefinger 
at  him,  stroked  it  with  the  other  as  one  strops  a  razor. 

"  'Fraid  to  sit  in  the  hammock  with  a  girl,"  she  taunted. 

She  was  very  pretty  and  provoking  in  the  silver  light;  and 
Wint  understood  that  he  could  kiss  her  if  he  chose.  He  had 
kissed  Agnes  before  this.  "Wink"  and  "Post  Office"  and 
kindred  games  were  popular  when  he  and  Agnes  were  in  high 
school  together.  But  —  he  had  no  notion  of  kissing  Agnes, 
moonlight  or  no  moonlight.  He  had  come  to  see  Amos. 
Amos's  daughter  was  another  matter. 

"  When  is  Amos  coming  home?  "  he  asked.  "  Has  he  called 
up?  Maybe  I'd  better  walk  uptown." 

"He  called  and  said  he  was  starting,"  she  assured  him. 
"You  stay  right  here.  He'll  be  here,  unless  he  gets  to  talk 
ing  some  of  your  old  politics.  I  suppose  that's  what  you  came 
to  see  him  for." 

"  Oh,  I  just  happened  down  this  way.  .  .  ." 

She  sat  up  straight.  "  Good  gracious.  You  act  as  though 
it  were  a  secret.  Tell  me,  this  minute." 

"  Why,  as  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Wint  good-naturedly,  "  I 
want  to  talk  to  him  about  a  sewer  the  city's  going  to  put  in 
through  some  land  he  owns.  I  guess  you're  not  interested  in 
sewers." 

She  grimaced,  and  said  she  should  say  not.  "  I  thought 
maybe  it  was  something  about  the  bootleggers,"  she  said. 


252  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  Everybody's  talking  about  them.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
to  them?  " 

Wint  laughed.  "  That's  like  the  instructions  for  destroying 
potato  bugs,"  he  said.  "  First,  catch  your  potato  bug." 

"You  mean  you  haven't  caught  any?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

"Are   you   trying   to?" 

"  Why,  we've  got  our  eyes  open." 

"  I  love  to  hear  about  criminals  and  everything,"  she  said. 
"  What  will  you  do  to  them  when  you  get  them?  Send  them 
to  jail?  " 

"Well,  I'll  do  that,  if  I  can't  do  anything  worse." 

She  asked :  "  You're  really  going  to  —  you  really  mean  to 
get  after  them?  "  He  nodded,  and  she  laughed.  He  asked: 

"  What's  the  joke?  " 

"  Oh,  it  seems  funny  for  you  to  be  so  moral  about  whisky 
and  things." 

He  grinned.     "  It  is  funny,  isn't  it?  " 

"  I  should  think  they'd  just  laugh  at  you." 

"Well,  maybe  they  do." 

"  I  suppose  you're  just  going  to  give  them  a  lesson,  and  then 
—  sort  of  let  things  go,  aren't  you?  " 

Wint  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  sha'n't  let  things  go.  Not 
as  long  as  I'm  —  in  charge." 

"  But  lots  of  people  will  be  awfully  mad  at  you.  Why,  even 
your  father  buys  whisky  and  things,  doesn't  he?  " 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.     But  he  doesn't  sell  them." 

"  Well,  some  one's  got  to  sell  them  to  him." 

"  They'll  not  sell  in  Hardiston,"  said  Wint.  He  was  a  little 
tired  of  this.  "  Looks  to  me  as  though  Amos  has  stopped  to 
talk  politics,  after  all.  Did  you  tell  him  I  was  coming?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  assured  him.  "He'll  be  right  home." 
She  got  up  abruptly.  "There's  some  lemonade  in  the  dining 
room,"  she  said.  "Would  you  like  some?" 

"  Every  time,"  he  said.  "  It's  warm  enough  to  make  it  taste 
pretty  fine,  to-night." 

She  came  out  with  a  tall  pitcher  and  two  glasses,  and  filled 


AGNES  TAKES  A  HAND  253 

his  glass  and  her  own.  They  lifted  the  glasses  together,  and 
Wint  touched  his  to  his  lips.  Then  he  took  it  down,  and  looked 
at  it,  and  said: 

"Hello!" 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"  There's  a  stick  in  this,  isn't  there?  " 

"Yes.     I  always  put  a  little  in.     Peach  brandy.     I  love  it." 

"  Peach  brandy,  eh?  " 

"  Yes.     Don't  you  like  it?  " 

"Well,  I've  been  letting  it  alone  lately.  I  guess  I'll 
not." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  silly,  Wint,"  she  protested,  and  stamped  her 
foot  at  him.  "  I  guess  a  little  brandy  won't  hurt  you !  " 

"  No,  probably  not,"  Wint  agreed.  "  But  I'm  on  the  wagon, 
you  see." 

"  You  make  me  feel  as  though  I'd  done  something  wrong  to 
offer  it  to  you." 

"  Why,  no.     Only,  I  ..." 

They  were  so  interested  that  neither  of  them  had  heard  Amos, 
and  neither  of  them  had  seen  him  stop  by  the  gate  for  a  moment, 
listening  to  what  they  said.  But  when  the  gate  opened,  Agnes 
saw  him,  and  the  sight  silenced  her.  Amos  came  heavily 
toward  the  house,  and  Agnes  called  to  him: 

"  Wint's  here,  dad." 

Amos  said:  "Oh!     Hello,  Wint!  " 

Wint  said  "  Good  evening."  Amos  was  up  on  the  porch  by 
this  time,  and  seemed  to  discover  the  lemonade. 

"  Hello,  there,"  he  exclaimed.  "  That  looks  pretty  good. 
I'm  hot.  Pour  me  a  glass,  Agnes." 

She  hesitated ;  and  Wint  said :  "  Take  mine." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  it?  "  Amos  asked  good-naturedly. 
"  Poisoned?  "  He  lifted  the  glass  to  his  nose.  "  Oh,  brandy, 
eh?  Well,  got  anything  against  that?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  on  the  wagon,  myself,  that's  all." 

Amos  nodded.  "  Well,  I  never  touch  it.  Not  lately.  Take 
it  away,  Agnes." 

His  voice   was   gentle   enough;  but   Wint   thought   the   girl 


254  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

seemed  very  white  and  frightened  as  she  faced  her  father.     She 
took  pitcher  and  glasses  and  went  swiftly  into  the  house.     Amos 
turned  to  Wint,  and  sat  down,  and  asked  cheerfully: 
"Well,  young  fellow,  what's  on  your  mind?  " 

When  their  business  was  done,  and  Wint  had  gone,  Amos 
sat  quietly  upon  the  porch  for  a  while.  Then,  without  moving 
from  his  chair,  he  turned  his  head  and  called  toward  the  open 
door: 

"Agnes!" 

She  answered,  from  inside.  He  said :  "  Come  here."  And 
she  appeared  in  the  doorway.  He  bade  her  come  out  and  sit 
down.  She  chose  the  hammock,  lay  back  indolently. 

Amos  filled  his  pipe  with  slow  care  and  lighted  it.  His  head 
was  on  one  side,  his  eyes  squinted  thoughtfully.  If  there  had 
been  more  light,  Agnes  could  have  seen  that  he  was  sorely 
troubled.  But  she  could  not  see.  So  she  thought  him  merely 
angry;  and  grew  angry  herself  at  the  thought. 

He  asked  at  last:  "You  offered  Wint  booze?" 

"  Just  some  lemonade,"  she  said  stiffly. 

"  Booze  in  it,"  he  reminded  her.  "  Don't  you  do  that  any 
more,  Agnes." 

"  I  guess  a  little  brandy  won't  hurt  Wint  Chase,"  she  told 
him. 

"  Don't  you  do  it  any  more,"  he  repeated,  finality  in  his 
tones.  She  said  nothing;  and  after  a  little  he  asked,  looking 
toward  her  wistfully  in  the  shadows  of  the  porch :  "  What  did 
you  do  it  for,  Agnes?  What  did  you  do  it  for,  anyway?  " 

She   shrugged    impatiently.     "  Oh,    I    don't   know." 

"What  did  you  do  it  for?  "  he  insisted.  There  was  an  im 
placable  strength  in  Amos;  she  knew  she  could  not  escape 
answering.  Nevertheless,  she  evaded  again. 

"  Oh,  no  reason." 

"What  did  you  do  it  for?  "  he  asked,  mildly,  for  the  third 
time;  and  Agnes  stamped  to  her  feet.  When  she  answered,  her 
voice  was  harsh  and  hard  and  indescribably  bitter. 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  get  him  drunk,"  she  said.  "  He's  so 
funny  when  he's  that  way.  That's  why." 


AGNES  TAKES  A  HAND  255 

She  stared  down  at  him  defiantly;  and  Amos  saw  hard  lines 
form  about  her  mouth.  Before  he  could  speak,  she  was  gone 

indoors. 

Amos  sat  there  for  a  long  while,  after  that,  thinking.  .  .  . 
His  thoughts  ran  back;  he  remembered  Agnes  as  a  baby,  as 
a  schoolgirl.  She  was  a  young  woman,  now. 

He  thought  to  himself,  a  curiously  helpless  feeling  oppress 
ing  him:  "  I  wish  her  mother  hadn't  've  died." 


CHAPTER  IX 

A   WORD  FROM   JOAN 

WINT  found  himself  unable  to  put  Hetty  out  of  his 
mind,   next   day.     He  had   overslept,   was   late   for 
breakfast,  and  ate  it  alone  with  Hetty  serving  him. 
When  she  came  into  the  dining  room,  he  said: 

"  Good  morning." 

Hetty  nodded,  without  answering.  And  he  asked  cheerfully: 
"  Well,  how's  the  world  this  morning?  " 

She  said  the  world  was  all  right;  and  she  went  out  into  the 
kitchen  again  before  he  could  ask  her  anything  more.  Wint, 
over  his  toast  and  coffee,  wondered.  He  was  beginning  to  have 
some  suspicion  as  to  what  was  wrong  with  Hetty.  But  —  he 
could  not  believe  it.  It  wasn't  possible.  It  couldn't  be. 

A  certain  burden  of  work  shut  down  on  him  that  day  and 
the  next,  so  that  he  forgot  her  in  his  affairs.  He  saw  her  every 
day,  of  course;  but  they  were  never  alone  together.  His 
mother  was  always  about.  And  there  were  other  matters  on 
Wint's  mind.  He  was  glad  to  be  able  to  forget  her.  Wint, 
like  most  men,  was  willing  to  forget  a  perplexity  if  forgetting 
were  possible.  And  Hetty  kept  out  of  his  way,  and  seemed 
to  resent  his  interest. 

He  met  Agnes  on  the  street  one  morning,  and  she  stopped 
him  and  talked  with  him.  She  was  very  gay  and  vivacious 
about  it,  touching  his  arm  in  a  friendly  way  now  and  then  to 
emphasize  some  meaningless  word.  Her  hand  was  on  his 
arm  thus  when  he  saw  Joan  coming,  a  little  way  off.  He  did 
not  know  that  Agnes  had  seen  her  some  time  before,  without 
seeming  to  do  so.  Agnes  discovered  Joan  now  with  a  start 
of  surprise,  and  she  took  her  hand  off  Wint's  arm  in  a  quick, 
furtive  way,  as  though  she  did  not  want  Joan  to  see.  Yet  Joan 
must  have  seen.  Wint  was  uncomfortably  conscious  that  he 
had  been  put  in  an  awkward  light;  but  he  supposed  the  whole 
thing  was  chance.  Nothing  more. 

256 


A  WORD  FROM  JOAN  257 

Agnes  exclaimed:  "Why,  Joan,  we  didn't  see  you  coming." 
Her  words  conveyed,  subtly  enough,  the  impression  that  if  they 
had  seen  Joan  coming,  matters  would  have  been  different;  and 
Wint  scowled,  and  looked  at  Joan,  and  wondered  if  she  was 
going  to  be  so  foolish  as  to  mind.  Then  Agnes  turned  to  him 
and  said: 

"  Run  along,  Wint,  I've  something  to  say  to  Joan.*'  And 
he  looked  at  Joan,  and  thought  there  was  pique  in  her  eyes; 
and  he  went  away  in  such  a  mood  of  sullen  resentment  as  had 
not  possessed  him  for  months.  It  stayed  with  him  all  that 
day:  he  reverted  into  the  prototype  of  the  old,  sulky,  stubborn 
Wint  who  had  made  all  the  trouble. 

Agnes  and  Joan  walked  uptown  together,  and  Agnes  chat 
tered  gayly  enough.  Agnes  had  always  a  ready  tongue,  while 
Joan  was  of  a  more  silent  habit.  Agnes  said  Wint  had  come 
down  to  see  her,  a  few  days  before. 

"  That  is,  of  course,"  she  explained,  "  he  pretended  he  came 
to  see  dad.  But  he  telephoned,  and  I  told  him  dad  wasn't  at 
home,  but  he  came  anyway.  We  sat  on  the  porch  and  drank 
lemonade.  That  night  the  moon  was  full.  Wasn't  it  the  most 
beautiful  night,  Joan?  I  think  Wint's  a  peach.  I  always  did. 
I  never  could  see  why  you  and  he  quarreled.  Seems  to  me 
you  were  awfully  foolish.  I'll  never  have  a  fuss  with  him, 
I  can  tell  you." 

There  was  too  much  sincerity  in  Joan  for  this  sort  of  thing; 
she  was  almost  helpless  in  Agnes's  hands.  That  is,  she  did  not 
know  how  to  counter  the  other  girl's  shafts.  She  did  say: 
"  Wint  and  I  haven't  really  quarreled.  We're  very  good 
friends." 

Agnes  nodded  wisely,  and  said :  "  Oh,  I  know."  She  looked 
up  at  Joan.  "Was  it  about  that  Hetty  Morfee,  Joan?  I  know 
it's  none  of  my  business,  but  I  can't  help  wondering.  I 
shouldn't  think  you'd  mind  that.  Men  are  that  way.  I  know 
it  doesn't  make  a  bit  of  difference  to  me.  Not  if —  Well,  I 
sha'n't  quarrel  with  Wint  over  Hetty,  I  can  tell  you." 

Joan  had  turned  white.  She  could  not  help  it;  and  Agnes 
saw,  and  added  cheerfully: 

"  Of  course,  you  can't  believe  half  you  hear,  anyway.     But 


258  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

they  do  say  that  she.  ...  No,  I'm  not  going  to.  ...  I 
never  was  one  to  tell  nasty  stories  about  people,  Joan." 

Joan  could  not  say  anything  to  save  her  life.  She  had  to 
get  away  from  Agnes,  and  she  managed  it  as  quickly  as  she 
could.  She  was  profoundly  troubled,  profoundly  unhappy. 
She  had  not  realized  how  much  Wint  meant  to  her.  The  things 
which  Agnes  intimated  made  her  physically  sick  with  unhap- 
piness  at  their  very  possibility.  She  finished  her  errands  as 
quickly  as  she  could,  and  hurried  home.  On  the  way,  she 
passed  Agnes  and  Jack  Routt  together,  and  they  spoke  to  her, 
and  she  responded,  holding  her  voice  steady.  She  was 
miserably  hurt  and  unhappy. 

At  home,  she  shut  herself  in  her  room  to  think.  There  was 
a  picture  of  Wint  on  her  bureau,  a  snapshot  she  had  taken 
two  or  three  years  before.  Wint  had  changed  since  then.  The 
pictured  face  was  boyish  and  round  and  good-natured;  Wint's 
face  now  had  a  strength  which  this  boy  in  the  picture  lacked. 
Wint  was  a  man  now,  for  good  or  ill. 

She  had,  suddenly,  a  surge  of  loyal  certainly  that  it  was 
for  good,  and  not  for  ill,  that  Wint  was  become  a  man.  There 
was  an  infinite  fund  of  natural  loyalty  in  Joan;  she  had  been 
prodded  by  Agnes  into  a  panic  of  doubt,  but  when  she  was 
alone,  this  panic  passed.  A  slow  fire  of  anger  at  Agnes  began 
to  burn  in  her;  anger  because  Agnes  had  meant  to  injure 
Wint,  not  because  Agnes  had  hurt  her.  In  Wint's  behalf  she 
took  up  arms;  she  considered  Agnes;  she  questioned  the  girl's 
motives,  she  went  over  and  over  the  incident,  trying  to  read 
a  meaning  into  it. 

There  is  an  instinctive  wisdom  in  woman  which  passes  any 
thing  in  man.  In  that  long  day  alone,  thinking  and  wondering 
and  questioning,  Joan  came  very  near  hitting  upon  the  whole 
truth  of  the  matter.  Nearer  than  she  knew.  She  came  so  near 
that  before  Wint  appeared  that  evening  —  he  had  arranged,  a 
day  or  two  before,  to  come  and  see  her  —  she  had  begun  to 
hate  Jack  Routt. 

She  did  not  know  why  this  was  so.  She  had  never  par 
ticularly  liked  Jack  Routt;  yet  he  had  always  been  cheerful, 
an  amiable  companion,  a  good  fellow.  Also,  he  was  Wint's 


A  WORD  FROM  JOAN  259 

friend,  and  Joan  was  loyal  to  Wint's  friends  as  she  was  to 
Wint.  But  —  All  that  day,  she  had  thought,  again  and  again, 
of  Jack's  eyes  when  she  saw  him  with  Agnes.  She  told  her 
self  there  had  been  something  hidden  in  them,  something  she 
could  not  define,  something  meanly  triumphant.  She  mis 
trusted  him;  and  before  Wint  came  to  her,  she  hated  Routt. 
And  feared  him. 

Nevertheless,  she  and  Wint  talked  of  matters  perfectly  com 
monplace  for  most  of  that  evening  together.  They  were  apt  to 
talk  of  commonplace  things  in  these  days;  because  safety  lay 
in  the  commonplace.  There  was  a  strange  balance  of  emotions 
between  Wint  and  Joan.  A  little  thing  might  have  tipped  it 
either  way.  At  times,  Wint  wished  to  bring  matters  to  an  issue; 
he  wished  to  cry  out  to  Joan  that  he  loved  her.  But  he  was 
restrained  by  a  desperate  fear  that  she  was  not  ready  to  hear 
him  say  this.  He  was  afraid  she  would  cast  him  out  once 
more.  And  —  he  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  that.  It  was 
something  to  be  able  to  see  her,  talk  with  her,  be  near  her. 
He  dared  not  risk  losing  this  much. 

Thus  they  talked  of  ordinary  matters,  till  Wint  got  up  to 
go  at  last.  Joan  went  out  on  the  porch  with  him;  he  stopped, 
on  one  of  the  steps,  a  little  below  her.  He  had  said  good-by 
before  Joan  found  courage.  She  asked,  then: 

"Wint!  Will  you  let  me?  .  .  .  There's  something  I  want 
to  ask  you." 

He  was  surprised;  his  heart  began  to  pound  in  his  throat. 
"To  ask  me?  "  he  repeated.  "Why  — all  right,  Joan.  What 
is  it?  " 

"Are  you  and  Routt  pretty  good  friends,  Wint?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  at  once.     "  Jack's  the  best  friend  I've  got." 

"Are  you  sure?  " 

"Of  course.     What's  the  idea,  Joan?  " 

She  said  reluctantly :  "  I  don't  know.  Only  —  I  don't  seem 
to  trust  him.  I  don't  like  him.  I'm  afraid  of  him." 

He  laughed.  "  Good  Lord !  Jack's  harmless ;  he's  a 
prince." 

"  I  don't  think  he's  as  loyal  to  you  as  you  are  to  him,"  she 
said. 


260  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Wint  exclaimed  impatiently :  "  The  way  you  girls  get  down 
on  a  fellow!  Jack's  all  right." 

Wint's  impatience  made  Joan  quieter  and  more  sure  of  her 
self.  "  I'm  not  sure,"  she  repeated,  and  smiled  a  little  wist 
fully.  "  Just  —  don't  trust  him  too  far,  Wint." 

"I'd  trust  him  with  all  I've  got,"  Wint  said  flatly.  "I 
think  you're  —  I'm  surprised  at  you,  Joan."  The  stubborn 
anger  roused  in  the  morning  when  Joan  came  upon  him  with 
Agnes  reawoke  in  Wint.  His  jaw  set,  and  his  eyes  were  hard. 

Joan  was  troubled;  she  wanted  to  say  more,  but  she  did  not 
know  how.  And  —  she  could  not  forget  Hetty.  She  had  not 
meant  to  speak  to  Wint  of  Hetty;  but  Joan  was  woman  enough 
to  be  unable  to  hold  her  tongue.  Also,  Wint's  loyalty  to  Routt 
had  angered  her;  she  was  willing  to  hurt  him  —  as  men  and 
women  are  always  willing  to  hurt  the  thing  they  love.  She  said 
slowly: 

"  Did  you  know  people  are  beginning  to  talk  about  Hetty 
Morfee,  Wint?  You  and  Hetty!  " 

Wint's  anger  flamed;  he  flung  up  his  hand  disgustedly. 
"You  women.  You're  always  ready  to  jump  on  each  other. 
Why  can't  this  town  let  Hetty  alone?  " 

"  I  only  meant  — "  Joan  began. 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  meant,"  Wint  told  her.  "  You  ought 
not  to  pass  gossip  on,  Joan.  I  hate  it." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  have  to  defend  her,"  she  protested ; 
and  he  said  hotly: 

"  I'm  not  defending  her.  She  doesn't  need  defending.  If 
she  did,  I  would,  though.  Hetty's  all  right." 

Joan  drew  back  a  little  into  the  shadow  of  the  porch.  After 
a  moment,  she  said: 

"  Good  night,  Wint." 

He  said  harshly:  "Good  night.  And  for  Heaven's  sake,  for 
get  this  foolishness.  Routt  and  Hetty.  .  .  .  They're  all  right." 

She  did  not  answer.  He  said  again :  "  Good  night,"  and  he 
turned  and  went  down  to  the  gate,  and  away. 

Joan  watched  him  go.  She  thought  she  ought  to  be  angry 
with  him,  and  hurt.  She  was  surprised  to  discover  that  she 
was  rather  proud  of  Wint,  instead;  proud  of  him  for  being 


A  WORD  FROM  JOAN  261 

angry,  even  at  her,  for  the  sake  of  his  friend,  and  for  the  sake 
of  Hetty. 

She  was  troubled,  because  she  thought  he  was  wrong;  but 
she  was  infinitely  proud,  too,  because  he  had  stuck  by  his  guns. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   STREET   CARNIVAL 

JOAN'S  warning  as  to  Jack  Routt,  her  word  as  to  Hetty, 
and  Wint's  rejection  of  both  warning  and  advice  did  not 
lead  to  a  break  between  them.     They  met  next  day,  and 
Wint  had  the  grace  to  say  to  her: 

"  I'm  sorry  I  talked  as  I  did  yesterday,  last  night.  I  was 
tired,  and  —  all  that.  I'm  sorry." 

"It's  all  right,"  Joan  told  him.  "It's  natural  for  you  to 
stick  by  your  friends." 

"  I  needn't  have  talked  so  to  you,  though." 

She  laughed,  and  said  he  had  been  all  right.  "  I  guess  you've 
been  imagining  you  were  worse  than  you  really  were,"  she  told 
him.  "  It's  quite  all  right,  really." 

"But  I'm  sorry  you  —  dislike  Jack,"  he  said.  "He's  an 
awfully  decent  sort." 

"  Is  he?  "  she  asked.  "  Then  I'm  glad  you  and  he  are 
friends." 

"That's  the  stuff,"  Wint  told  her.  "That's  the  way  to 
talk." 

Thereafter,  for  a  week  or  so,  life  in  Hardiston  went  quietly. 
V.  R.  Kite  still  bided  his  time;  there  was  no  liquor  being  sold; 
Ote  Runns  went  home  sober,  day  after  day,  with  a  look  of 
desperate  longing  in  his  eyes.  That  sodden  man  who  had 
embraced  Wint  in  the  Weaver  House  so  long,  whom  Wint  had 
jailed  more  than  once  for  his  drinking,  suffered  as  much  as 
Ote,  or  more.  He  came  to  Wint  and  unbraided  him  for  what  he 
had  done.  "  It  ain't  the  way  to  treat  a  fellow,"  he  told  Wint, 
pleading  huskily.  "  You  know  how  it  is.  I  just  gotta  have  a 
drink,  Mister  Mayor.  I  just  gotta.  I  told  Mrs.  Moody  she's 
gotta  give  me  a  drink,  and  she  told  me  you  wouldn't  let  her. 
You  ain't  got  a  thing  against  me,  now,  have  you?  "  The 

262 


THE  STREET  CARNIVAL  263 

miserable  man's  fingers  were  twitching,  his  lips  twisted  and 
writhed.  "  If  I  don't  get  a  drink,  I'm  a-going  to  kill  some- 
buddy,  I  am." 

Wint  did  not  know  what  to  do.  He  could  see  at  a  glance 
that  the  man  was  suffering  a  very  real  torment.  He  had  him 
self  never  become  so  soaked  with  alcohol  that  his  system  cried 
out  for  it  when  he  abstained;  but  he  knew  what  torture  this 
might  be.  He  had  an  idea  that  candy  would  alleviate  the  man's 
distress;  but  the  idea  seemed  to  him  ridiculous,  and  he  put 
it  aside.  Yet  there  was  an  obligation  upon  him  to  do  some 
thing. 

He  did,  in  the  end,  a  characteristic  thing,  an  impulsive  thing; 
and  yet  it  was  sensible,  too.  There  was  no  saving  this  man. 
Highest  mercy  to  him  was  to  let  him  drink  himself  to 
death.  Wint  told  him  to  come  to  the  house  that  night;  and  he 
gave  the  poor  fellow  a  quart  bottle  from  his  father's  store. 
The  derelict  wandered  away,  calling  Wint  blessed.  They  found 
him  under  a  tree  in  the  yard  next  door,  in  the  morning,  bliss 
fully  sleeping. 

The  story  got  around,  as  it  was  sure  to  do.  The  man  told 
it  himself;  he  boasted  that  Wint  was  a  good  fellow.  V.  R. 
Kite  heard  of  it,  and  waved  his  clenched  fists  and  swore  at 
Wint  by  every  saint  in  the  calendar.  Also,  he  sent  for  Jack 
Routt.  "  We've  got  him,"  he  cried.  "  He  can't  put  over  a 
thing  like  this  on  me,  Routt.  I'll  not  stand  for  it.  I'll  run  him 
out  of  town.  Or  get  out  myself.  Damn  it,  Routt,  he's  a  hypo 
crite!  He's  a  whited  sepulcher.  I'll — " 

Routt  laughed  good-naturedly,  and  held  up  a  quieting  hand. 
"Hold  on,"  he  said.  "We'll  have  better  than  this  on  Wint 
before  long.  Good  enough  so  that  I  —  I'll  tell  you  a  secret, 
Kite." 

Kite  looked  suspicious,  and  asked  what  the  secret  was;  but 
Routt  decided  not  to  tell.  Not  just  yet.  "Wait  till  the  time 
comes,"  he  told  Kite.  "  A  little  later  on." 

So  Kite  waited. 

Toward  the  end  of  June,  the  street  carnival  came  to  town  for 
a  week's  stay.  These  carnivals  are  indigenous  to  such  towns 
as  Hardiston.  They  resemble  nothing  so  much  as  an  aggrega- 


264  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

tion  of  the  added  attractions  which  usually  go  with  a  circus, 
broken  loose  from  the  circus  and  wandering  about  the  country 
alone.  A  merry-go-round  reared  its  tent  and  set  up  it  clank 
ing  organ  at  Main  and  Pearl  streets.  Down  the  hill  below  the 
tent,  the  snake-eating  wild  man  had  his  lair;  and  below  him, 
again,  there  was  an  "  Ocean  Wave."  Along  Pearl  Street  in  the 
other  direction  the  Museum  of  Freaks  and  the  Galaxy  of 
Beauty  were  located.  Main  Street  itself  was  given  over  to 
venders  of  popcorn,  candy,  hot  dogs,  ice-cream  sandwiches, 
lemonade,  ginger  pop,  and  every  other  indigestible  on  the 
calendar.  There  also,  you  might,  for  the  matter  of  a  nickel, 
have  three  tries  at  ringing  a  cane  worth  six  cents,  or  a  knife 
worth  three.  Or  you  might  take  a  chance  in  the  great  lottery, 
where  every  entrant  drew  some  prize,  even  if  it  were  only  a 
packet  of  hairpins.  The  arts  and  crafts  were  represented  by 
a  man  who  would  twist  a  bit  of  gilded  wire  into  likeness  of 
your  signature  for  half  a  dollar. 

The  first  tents  of  the  carnival  began  to  rise  one  Saturday 
morning;  and  all  that  day  and  the  next,  the  boys  of  the  town 
and  the  grown-ups,  too,  watched  the  show  take  shape.  It  was 
almost  as  good  as  a  circus.  At  noon  on  Monday,  the  carnival 
opened  for  business,  with  the  ballyhoo  men  in  full  voice  be 
fore  every  tent.  The  moderate  afternoon  crowd  grew  into  a 
throng  in  the  evening,  when  the  kerosene  torches  flared  and 
smoked  on  every  pole,  and  the  normal  things  of  daylight  took 
on  a  dusky  glamour  in  the  jerky  illumination  of  the  flares. 

Every  one  went  uptown  to  the  carnival  that  first  evening. 
Wint  was  there,  and  Jack  Routt,  Agnes,  Joan,  V.  R.  Kite  — 
every  one.  In  mid-evening,  the  quieter  folk  drifted  home,  but 
Wint  stayed  to  watch  what  passed.  A  little  after  eleven,  he 
bumped  into  a  drunken  man. 

In  spite  of  his  warning  to  the  advance  agent  of  this  carnival, 
Wint  had  been  expecting  to  see  drunken  men.  It  was  the  nature 
of  the  carnival  breed.  He  wandered  back  and  forth  till  he  came 
upon  Jim  Radabaugh,  and  called  the  marshal  aside. 

"  Jim,"  he  said,  "  they're  selling  booze." 

Radabaugh  shifted  that  lump  in  his  cheek,  and  spat.  "  So  ?  " 
he  asked  mildly. 


THE  STREET  CARNIVAL  265 

"  I  want  it  stopped,"  said  Wint.  "  If  you  pin  it  on  the 
carnival  bunch,  I'll  shut  them  up." 

"  I'll  see,"  Radabaugh  promised. 

"  Come  along,  first,  and  let's  talk  to  the  boss,"  Wint  sug 
gested;  and  they  sought  out  that  man.  He  was  running  the 
merry-go-round;  a  hard  little  fellow  with  a  cold  blue  eye. 
Wint  introduced  himself;  and  the  man  shook  hands  effusively. 

"My  name's  Rand,"  he  said.  "Mike  Rand.  Glad  t'  meet 
you,  Mister  Mayor." 

Wint  said:  "That's  all  right,"  and  he  asked:  "Did  your 
advance  man  give  you  my  orders?  " 

"What  orders?" 

"  I  told  him  I  didn't  want  any  booze  peddling." 

"Sure,  he  told   me." 

Wint  jerked  his  head  backward  toward  Main  Street.  "I  ran 
into  a  drunk  up  there,"  he  said. 

Rand  grinned.     "  Can't  help  that.     We're  not  selling  any." 

"  I'm  holding  you  responsible,"  said  Wint.  "  If  there's  any- 
sold,  I'll  cancel  your  permits." 

The  little  man  stared  at  him  bleakly.  "  You've  got  a  nerve. 
You  can't  pin  anything  on  us." 

"  I  can't  help  that,"  Wint  told  him.  "  In  fact,  I  don't  care. 
If  there's  booze  sold,  you  get  out.  If  I  pin  in  on  any  man, 
he  goes  to  jail.  Is  that  clear?  " 

"  What  is  this  town,  anyway  —  a  damned  Sunday  school?  " 

"  If  you  like,"  said  Wint  sweetly ;  and  he  and  Radabaugh 
turned  away.  Rand's  engine  man  left  his  throttle  to  approach 
his  chief  and  ask: 

"What's  up?     Who  was  that?" 

"  Mayor  of  this  burg  and  the  marshal.  Say  we've  got  to 
shut  down  on  the  booze." 

"Like  hell!  " 

Rand  grinned.     "  Sure.     He  can't  run  a  whoozer  on  me." 

When  he  left  Radabaugh,  Wint  ran  into  Jack  Routt,  and  they 
strolled  about  together  through  the  crowd.  Once  they  saw 
Hetty,  and  Wint  thought  she  was  unnaturally  cheerful  and 
gay.  He  wondered  if  it  were  possible  she  had  been  drinking 
again;  and  he  stared  after  her  so  long  that  Routt  asked: 


266  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"Takes  your  eye,  does  she?" 

"  I  was   wondering,"  said  Wint. 

Routt  touched  his  arm.  "You  take  it  from  me,  Wint,  you 
want  to  keep  clear  of  her.  I'd  get  her  out  of  the  house,  if  I 
were  you.  They're  beginning  to  talk." 

Wint  asked  angrily:  "Who's  beginning  to  talk?  What 
about?  " 

"  Everybody.     About  Hetty  —  and  you,  naturally." 

"  I  wish  they  —  I  wish  people  in  this  town  would  mind  their 
own  business." 

Routt  grinned  and  said:  "You  act  as  though  there  was 
something  in  it." 

"  Don't  be  a  darned  fool." 

"  Well,  I'm  telling  you  what  people  say.  If  I  were  you  — 
you're  a  public  official,  you  know,  in  the  public  eye  —  I'd  be 
careful-  Tell  your  mother  to  get  rid  of  her.  Safest  thing  to 
do." 

"  I'm  not  looking  for  safe  things  to  do."  Wint  liked  the 
defiant  sound  of  that. 

Routt  nodded.     "  I'd  be  worried,  if  it  was  me.     That's  all." 

"  I'm  not  worried,"  said  Wint.  "  Hetty's  all  right.  And  if 
she  weren't  —  I  don't  propose  to  be  scared." 

"  We-ell,  it's  your  funeral,"  Routt  told  him. 

Wint  laughed.  "  I  guess  it's  not  as  bad  as  that.  It's  almost 
twelve.  I'm  going  home." 


CHAPTER  XI 

FIRST   BLOOD 

IT  was  upon  the  carnival  that  Wint  was  to  score  first  blood 
in  his  fight  to  clean  up  Hardiston.  Mike  Rand,  carnival 
boss,  was  a  hard  man,  willing  to  take  a  chance,  afraid 
only  of  being  bluffed.  So  he  took  Wint's  warning  as  a  chal 
lenge.  Nevertheless,  for  the  sake  of  making  things  as  sure  as 
might  be,  he  went  to  see  V.  R.  Kite.  He  and  Kite  had  known 
and  understood  each  other  for  a  good  many  years. 

He  dropped  in  to  see  Kite  Tuesday  morning;  and  the  little 
man  remembered  his  church  connections  and  his  outward 
respectability,  and  worried  for  fear  some  one  had  seen  Rand 
come  in.  His  worry  took  the  form  of  resentment  at  Rand's 
imprudence.  "  Ought  to  be  more  careful,"  he  protested. 
"  Have  more  sense,  man.  I  have  to  watch  myself  in  this  town. 
Don't  you  know  that?  I  have  a  position  to  keep  up.  You're 
all  right,  of  course."  This  as  Rand's  eyes  hardened  in  a 
stare  that  made  Kite  wince.  "  But  I  can't  afford  to  be  hitched 
up  with  you  openly.  It  wouldn't  do  either  of  us  any  good." 

Rand  said  dryly:  "You  don't  need  to  worry  about  me.  I 
can  stand  it." 

"  I  can  be  useful  to  you  now,  whereas  my  usefulness  would 
be  gone  if  I  were  less  respected." 

"  Respected,  hell !  "  said  Rand  without  emotion.  "  Don't 
they  call  you  '  The  Buzzard '  around  here?  I've  heard  so. 
That  don't  sound  respectful." 

"  That's  a  jest,"  said  Kite.     "  Nothing  more." 

"  Pinned  on  you  by  this  shrimp  Mayor,  wasn't  it?  " 

"Yes.     Good-naturedly.     He  was  drunk." 

"  Drunk?  Him?  "  Rand  lifted  his  hands  in  pious  horror. 
"  I  thought  he  was  one  of  these  '  lips-that-touch-liquor-shall- 
never-touch-mine '  guys,  to  hear  him  talk." 

"He's  not  drinking  now;  not  openly.  He  was  a  sot,  a  few 

267 


268  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

months  ago.     Dead  drunk  in  the  Weaver  House,  the  night  he 
was  elected  Mayor.     I  saw  him  there." 

Rand  drawled:  "I'll  say  this  is  some  town."  He  leaned 
forward.  "What  I  want  to  know  is:  how  about  this  booze? 
He  serves  notice  on  me  that  I'm  responsible  if  any's  sold.  How 
about  it?  Will  he  go  through?  Or  is  it  a  bluff?  " 

Kite  considered.     "  I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

"  Has  he  shut  you  down  ?  " 

"  He  gave  us  orders  not  to  sell ;  and  we're  not  selling.  But 
we're  not  idle.  We're  preparing  to  spring  a  mine  under  that 
man." 

"He's  got  you  bluffed." 

Kite's  face  twisted  with  a  sudden  rush  of  fury.  "  I  tell  you, 
we're  going  to  destroy  him  —  blast  him! — in  our  own  good 
time." 

Rand  studied  the  little  man ;  then  he  nodded.  "  Well,  that's 
all  right.  Just  the  same,  he's  got  you  shut  down." 

"  Yes." 

"  Has  he  pulled  any  one  yet  for  selling?  " 

"  No." 

"  How  about  the  marshal?     Is  he  reasonable?  " 

"  I  believe  he  will  obey  the  Mayor's  orders." 

"Only  question  is  the  Mayor's  nerve,  then?  " 

"Yes." 

"And  you  haven't  tried  it  out?  " 

"  No ;  we're  waiting  to  strike  when  we're  sure  of  winning." 

"  Hell!  "  said  Rand  disgustedly.  "  He's  got  you  bluffed.  I 
don't  believe  he's  got  the  nerve  to  go  through  with  it;  but  one 
thing's  sure.  He's  got  your  number,  you  old  skate." 

Kite  answered  hotly :  "  If  you're  so  brave,  why  don't  you  go 
ahead  and  fight  him?  " 

"Are  you  with  me?  " 

"  I'm  not  ready  to  fight." 

Rand  got  up.  "  Well,  I  am.  I  never  dodged  a  fight  yet. 
You  watch,  old  man;  you'll  see  the  fur  fly  yet." 

He  stalked  out,  head  back  and  shoulders  squared  aggressively. 
Kite  watched  him  go,  and  nodded  to  himself  with  a  measure 
of  satisfaction.  He  was  perfectly  willing  to  see  Wint  forced  to 


FIRST  BLOOD  269 

fight  —  provided   some   one  besides   himself   did   the   forcing. 
Rand  looked  like  a  fighter. 

Wint  and  Jack  Routt  met,  on  the  way  uptown  after  supper 
that  day.  Routt  asked  if  Wint  were  going  to  the  carnival 
again,  and  Wint  nodded.  "  Keeping  an  eye  on  it,"  he  said. 

They  went  to  the  Post  Office  first;  and  Routt  stopped  at  his 
office.  "  Come  up,"  he  said.  "  I'll  only  be  a  minute." 

Wint  went  up  with  him.  Routt  dropped  a  letter  or  two  on 
his  desk;  then  from  a  lower  drawer  produced  a  bottle.  "  Don't 
mind  if  I  mix  myself  a  highball,  do  you,  Wint?  "  he  asked 
cheerfully.  "  I  don't  suppose  you'll  feel  called  on  to  arrest 
me." 

"  Go  ahead,"  Wint  said.  Roult  poured  some  whisky  into  a 
glass,  filled  it  from  a  siphon. 

"You're  wise  to  leave  the  stuff  alone,"  he  said,  between  the 
first  and  second  sips  from  the  glass.  "  It's  bad  stuff  unless  a 
fellow  can  handle  it." 

Wint  nodded  uneasily.  There  was  no  physical  craving  in 
him;  nevertheless  there  was  an  acute  desire  to  drink  for  the  sake 
of  drinking,  for  the  sake  of  being  like  other  men,  for  the  sake 
of  defying  the  danger.  "  That's  right,"  he  said.  "  I'm  off  it." 

"  At  that,"  Routt  remarked,  the  highball  half  gone,  "  I  guess 
you've  shown  you  can  take  it  or  let  it  alone.  I  lay  off  of  it 
myself,  once  in  a  while,  just  to  be  sure  I  can." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  miss  it,"  Wint  said  brazenly. 

"  Sure  you  don't,"  Routt  agreed.  "  You're  no  toper.  Never 
were.  Any  one  likes  to  drink  for  the  sake  of  being  a  good 
fellow.  That's  all  I  drink  for."  He  finished  the  glass,  poured 
in  a  little  more  whisky.  "  Long  as  I'm  sure  I  can  stop  when 
I  want  to,  the  way  you  have  done,  I  go  ahead  and  drink  when 
ever  I  feel  like  it." 

Wint  nodded.  Routt  looked  at  him  with  a  curious  intent- 
ness.  "  Another  glass  here,  if  you'd  like,"  he  said. 

"  I  guess  not." 

Routt  laughed.  "All  right.  You  know  best.  If  you  can't 
let  it  alone  when  you  get  started  — " 

"  Oh,  I  can  take  a  drink  and  quit." 


270  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"Want  one?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so." 

Routt  chuckled.  "  Funny  to  see  you  afraid  of  anything,"  he 
said.  "  I  never  expected  to  see  it." 

Wint  got  up  abruptly.  The  old  Wint  would  have  reached 
for  the  bottle;  this  was  the  new  Wint's  impulse.  But  he 
fought  it  down,  steadied  his  voice.  "  Jack,"  he  said,  a  little 
huskily,  "  you're  a  friend  of  mine.  I  don't  want  to  drink, 
never.  Don't  offer  it  to  me.  Some  day  I  might  accept.  Don't 
ever  offer  me  a  drink,  Jack.  Please." 

Routt  was  ashamed  of  himself,  and  angry  at  Wint  for  making 
him  ashamed.  "  Hell,  all  right,"  he  said,  and  dropped  the 
bottle  into  its  place.  "  Come  on,  let's  take  the  air." 

At  a  little  after  eleven  that  night,  Mike  Rand  sought  out 
Wint.  Wint  was  standing  before  the  cane  booth,  watching  the 
ring-tossers.  Rand  pushed  up  beside  him  and  touched  his 
arm,  and  Wint  looked  around.  The  carnival  boss  said 
harshly : 

"Hey,  you!" 

Wint  looked  around  at  him,  and  said  quietly:  "Evening. 
What's  the  matter?  " 

"  Your  damned  hick  marshal  has  pulled  one  of  my  men.  I 
want  to  bail  him  out." 

Wint  took  a  minute  to  consider  this,  get  his  bearings.  He  had 
not  seen  Radabaugh  all  evening.  He  asked  Rand:  "You  mean 
he's  made  an  arrest?  What's  the  charge?  " 

"  Claims  the  man  was  selling  booze  to  a  bum." 

"  Was  he?  "  Wint  inquired  gently. 

"  Was  he?  "  Rand  growled.  "  No,  of  course  not.  You 
must  think  we're  bad  men,  coming  here  to  dirty  your  pretty 
little  town.  He  was  selling  liver  pills,  or  pink  tea.  What  the 
hell  of  it?  I  want  to  bail  him  out." 

"  No  bail  accepted,"  said  Wint  quietly.  "  He'll  have  to  stay 
in  the  calaboose  over  night." 

Rand  exploded,  as  though  he  had  been  half  expecting  this. 
He  said  some  harsh  things  about  Hardiston,  and  some  harsher 
things  about  Wint,  none  of  which  will  bear  repeating.  In  the 
midst  of  them,  Wint  stirred  a  little  and  struck  the  man  heavily 


FIRST  BLOOD  271 

in  the  mouth  with  his  right  fist;  at  the  same  time,  his  left  started 
and  landed  in  the  other's  throat,  and  the  right  went  home  again 
on  Rand's  hard  little  jaw.  Rand  fell  in  a  snoring  heap. 

Wint  was  curiously  elated.  He  looked  around.  A  crowd 
had  gathered,  and  some  of  the  carnival  men  were  pushing 
through  the  crowd.  There  was  a  belligerent  look  about  them. 
Then  he  saw  Marshal  Jim  Radabaugh  elbowing  through  the 
circle,  and  Wint  was  glad  to  see  Jim.  He  called  him: 

"  Marshal,  here's  a  man  I've  arrested." 

That  halted  Rand's  underlings.  Rand  himself  was  groaning 
back  to  consciousness.  Wint  pointed  down  at  him.  "  Take 
him  to  jail,"  he  said. 

One  of  the  carnival  men  protested.  Wint  turned  to  him. 
"  Close  up  your  shows,  all  of  you,"  he  told  the  man.  "  Your 
permit's  cancelled.  Get  out  of  town  to-morrow." 

Radabaugh  had  Rand  on  his  feet;  he  gripped  the  man,  his 
left  hand  twisted  in  the  other's  collar.  Two  or  three  of  Rand's 
men  surged  toward  them,  and  Radabaugh's  gun  flickered  into 
sight.  It  had  a  steadying  effect;  no  one  pressed  closer. 

All  the  fighting  blood  had  flowed  out  of  Rand's  smashed  lips. 
He  was  whining  now:  "  Come,  old  man,  what's  the  idea?  " 
Wint  and  Radabaugh  marched  him  between  them  through  the 
crowd.  Two  or  three  score  curious,  cheering  or  cursing  spec 
tators  followed  them  to  the  cells  behind  the  fire-engine  house. 
Rand  submitted  to  being  locked  up  there  with  no  more  than 
querulous  protests.  He  seemed  thoroughly  tamed.  He  asked 
for  a  lawyer,  but  Wint  said  there  was  no  need  of  a  lawyer  that 
night.  Two  of  the  fire  department,  on  duty,  had  come  out  to 
see  the  business  of  locking  up  this  second  prisoner.  Radabaugh 
bade  them  keep  an  eye  on  the  cells,  and  they  agreed  to  do  so. 
Then  the  marshal  scattered  the  crowd.  Wint  washed  his  bruised 
hands  in  the  engine  house.  After  a  little,  Radabaugh  came  in; 
and  Wint  asked: 

"  Is  it  true  you  got  a  man  selling?  " 

"  Yes.     The  capper  at  the  lottery." 

"How'd  you  get  him?  " 

Radabaugh  chuckled,  and  shifted  the  lump  in  his  cheek. 
"  Saw  Ote  Runns,"  he  said.  "  Figured  Ote  would  nose  out  any 


272  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

loose  booze,  so  I  kind  of  kept  an  eye  on  Ote.  He  talked  to  two 
or  three  men,  and  finally  to  this  fellow.  They  went  in  behind 
the  billboard  by  the  hotel,  and  I  saw  him  slip  Ote  the  bottle 
and  take  Ote's  money.  So  I  nabbed  him." 

"Ote?     Get  him  too?" 

"Yes;  him  and  his  half  pint.  I  let  him  keep  it.  He  was 
pretty  shaky.  Needed  it,  I  guess." 

Wint  nodded.  "  Be  around  in  the  morning?  "  he  asked. 
"  I'll  be  down  early." 

Radabaugh  assented.  Wint  hesitated,  then  he  said :  "  Good 
work,  Jim." 

The  marshal  grinned.  "Well,"  he  told  Wint,  "from  the 
looks  of  Rand's  face,  you  did  some  good  work,  too." 

They  shook  hands.  There  was  a  distinctly  mutual  liking  and 
admiration  in  their  grip.  Then  Wint  started  for  home,  and 
Radabaugh  went  back  to  keep  an  eye  on  his  prisoners. 

One  of  Rand's  men  went  to  V.  R.  Kite  with  the  news  of  the 
trouble;  and  Kite,  uncertain  what  to  do,  sent  for  Jack  Routt  and 
told  him  what  had  happened.  This  was  at  midnight.  "  I've  got 
to  stand  by  Rand,"  Kite  said.  "  The  question  is,  are  we  ready 
to  get  after  Wint?  " 

Routt  shook  his  head.  "Time  for  that.  Hold  off,"  he  ad 
vised. 

Kite  asked  impatiently:  "How  long?  What  makes  you 
think  you  can  get  anything  on  him?  " 

"  It's  ripe,"  said  Routt.  "  Apt  to  break  any  time.  I've  been 
working  on  it." 

In  the  end,  he  persuaded  Kite  to  wait.  "  Well,  then,"  Kite 
asked,  "  what  are  we  going  to  do  about  Rand?  " 

"  He's  got  to  take  his  medicine." 

"  He  won't.     He'll  fight." 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Routt.  "  I'll  go  see  him.  Fix  it  up  with 
him." 

"  Can  you  do  it  without  Wint's  finding  out?  " 

Routt  laughed.  "  I'm  a  lawyer.  I've  a  right  to  have  clients, 
even  in  the  Mayor's  court.  I'll  take  their  case." 

Kite,  in  the  end,  agreed  to  that.     When  Routt  left  the  little 


FIRST  BLOOD  273 

man,  he  intended  to  go  direct  to  the  jail;  but  on  the  way,  he 
changed  his  mind.  As  well  to  let  the  men  cool  their  heels. 
It  would  make  Rand  more  ready  to  listen  to  reason. 

He  went  up  Main  Street  toward  the  carnival,  and  found  that 
the  tents  were  coming  down,  one  of  Radabaugh's  officers  keeping 
a  watchful  eye  on  the  proceedings.  Wint's  orders  that  the  shows 
be  closed  could  not  be  evaded.  This  much,  at  least,  he  had 
scored.  Routt  went  home  and  did  some  thinking. 

He  appeared  at  the  jail  half  an  hour  before  Wint  came  to 
hold  court;  and  Radabaugh  let  him  talk  with  Rand  and  with  Jthe 
other  man.  When  Wint  appeared,  the  two  were  brought  into 
court,  with  Ote  Runns  as  a  witness,  for  good  measure.  Wint 
was  surprised  to  see  Routt.  Jack  nodded  to  him,  and  came  up 
to  Wint's  desk,  and  said :  "  Rand  sent  for  me.  Wanted  me  to 
take  his  case.  He  knows  he's  licked,  I  think.  He'll  take  his 
medicine,  if  you  don't  make  it  too  stiff." 

"  I'm  charging  him  with  assault  and  with  using  profane  lan 
guage,"  said  Wint. 

"  Assault?  "  Routt  laughed.  "  Thought  it  was  you  that  did 
the  assaulting." 

"  He  made  threats.  Threats  constitute  an  assault.  You  know 
that  as  well  as  I  do." 

Routt  nodded.  "  Oh,  sure."  He  added:  "You  know,  the 
carnival's  shut  up.  It's  costing  Rand  money.  You  might  go 
as  light  as  you  can." 

"  I'm  going  to  give  the  other  man  the  limit,"  said  Wint. 

"That's  all  right,"  Routt  agreed.  "Rand's  sore  at  him  for 
getting  caught.  He'll  let  the  poor  gink  take  his  medicine." 

Wint  nodded  abstractedly.  Foster,  the  city  solicitor,  had  just 
come  in,  and  Wint  beckoned  to  him,  and  asked :  "  What's  the 
worst  I  can  do  on  a  charge  of  illegal  liquor  selling?  " 

"  Two  hundred  dollars'  fine  on  the  first  offense,"  Foster  told 
him. 

Three  minutes  later,  the  offender  was  protesting  that  he  could 
not  pay  such  a  fine;  he  was  appealing  desperately  to  Rand. 
Wint  bade  the  carnival  boss  stand  up.  Rand  got  to  his  feet. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  this  business,"  he  said  humbly.  "  I  thought 
you  were  just  trying  to  save  your  face.  Running  a  bluff." 


274  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"Are  you  paying  his  fine  for  your  friend?"  Wint  asked 
coldly. 

Rand  said :  "  No,  blast  him !  If  he  wants  to  get  caught  by 
a  hick  constable,  let  him  take  his  medicine.  Work  it  out." 

"  I  wouldn't  call  Radabaugh  a  hick  to  his  face,"  Wint  sug 
gested  in  a  mild  voice,  and  Rand  apologized. 

"  I  didn't  mean  a  thing,"  he  said. 

Wint,  in  a  swift  hurry  to  be  done,  told  him:  "You're  fined 
ten  for  assault,  and  five  for  profanity.  And  costs." 

"  That's  all  right,"  Rand  cheerfully  agreed.     "  I'll  pay." 

Wint  nodded,  disgusted  at  the  man  because  he  submitted  so 
tamely.  He  sat  back  in  his  chair,  listening  idly  to  what  Routt 
was  saying,  paying  no  apparent  heed.  Rand  settled  his  fines 
and  costs  with  the  clerk,  shook  hands  with  Routt,  and  departed. 
When  he  was  gone,  Wint  sat  up  with  new  energy. 

"  I  hope  we're  rid  of  him  for  good,"  he  said. 

"You  are,  I'll  say,"  Routt  told  him.  "He's  had  all  he 
wants." 

The  carnival  got  out  of  town  that  day;  but  before  he  de 
parted,  Rand  had  a  word  with  Kite,  and  Kite  comforted  him. 
"  Don't  worry,"  Kite  said.  "  This  won't  last.  You'll  make  a 
harvest  here,  next  summer." 

Rand  said  ruefully:  "I'm  not  making  any  harvest  now. 
And  they  tell  me  you  helped  elect  this  guy." 

"  He  was  a  common  drunk,  then.     How  could  I  know?  " 

Rand  fingered  his  swollen  face  gingerly.  "  I'll  say  he's  got 
a  punch." 

"  He  won't  have  any  punch  left  when  we're  done  with  him," 
Kite  promised.  "  Wait  and  see." 

"  I'm  waiting,"  said  Rand.  And  a  little  later,  he  and  his  co 
horts  went  their  way. 


CHAPTER  XII 

POOR   HETTY 

IN  mid- July,  Wint  at  last  found  out  the  truth  about  Hetty. 
That  is  to  say,  he  found  out  a  part  of  the  truth;  enough  to 
make  him  heartsick  and  sorry. 

His  eventual  enlightenment  was  inevitable  as  to-morrow  morn 
ing's  sunrise.  A  more  sophisticated  young  man  —  Jack  Routt, 
for  example  —  would  not  have  remained  in  the  dark  so  long. 
But  Wint,  aside  from  noticing  that  Hetty  looked  badly,  and  aside 
from  some  casual  consideration  of  Routt's  repeated  warnings, 
gave  very  little  thought  to  his  mother's  handmaiden.  There 
were  too  many  other  and  more  important  things  to  occupy  him. 
His  work  as  Mayor,  his  studies,  his  Joan.  Joan  was  bulking 
very  large  in  his  life  in  those  days.  He  found  understanding, 
and  sympathy,  in  her.  They  were  better  than  sweethearts;  they 
were  friends.  The  other  —  this  thought  must  have  been  lying, 
unspoken,  in  the  mind  of  each  —  the  other  could  wait  and  must 
wait  till  Wint  had  proved  himself  for  good  and  all.  Then.  .  .  . 
Once  in  a  while,  Wint  allowed  himself  to  look  forward,  and  to 
dream.  But  not  often.  The  present  was  too  engrossing  to  give 
much  time  for  dreaming  of  the  future. 

So,  though  he  saw  Hetty  daily,  when  she  served  the  meals  at 
home,  or  when  he  went  into  the  kitchen,  or  when  he  encoun 
tered  her  at  her  cleaning  in  the  front  part  of  the  house,  Wint 
gave  her  very  little  consideration.  His  mother  protested,  once 
in  a  while,  that  Hetty  was  growing  lazy.  "  She  slacks  things," 
the  voluble  little  woman  said.  "She  leaves  dust  about;  and 
she's  not  so  neat  as  she  used  to  be.  I  declare,  you  just  can't  get 
a  girl  that  will  keep  up  her  work.  They  all  get  so  lazy  after  a 
while,  but  I  did  think  that  Hetty  was  going  to  be — " 

Wint's  father  said,  tolerantly,  that  Hetty  was  all  right;  that 
she  was  a  good  cook,  and  did  her  work  well  enough,  so  far  as 

275 


276  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

he  could  see.  The  elder  Chase  had  always  been  a  good-natured 
man;  but  a  new  generosity  in  his  appraisal  of  others  was  devel 
oping  in  the  man  now.  He  had  been  in  some  trouble  of  mind 
since  that  day  in  May  when  Amos  Caretall  came  home.  Chase 
was  oppressed  by  the  conviction  that  he  had  acted  unworthily  in 
that  matter;  yet  he  could  not  admit  as  much.  His  hostility  to 
ward  Amos  would  not  let  him.  The  result  was  that  he  felt  at 
odds  with  his  son;  that  they  avoided  discussions  of  the  town's 
affairs;  that  they  lived  together  in  a  polite  neutrality.  It  was 
working  changes  in  Chase.  He  was  becoming,  in  some  fash 
ion,  a  sympathetic,  rather  likable  figure.  You  felt  he  was 
unhappy,  needed  comforting. 

So,  on  this  day,  he  spoke  well  of  Hetty;  and  because  Mrs. 
Chase  was  always  the  loyal  mirror  of  her  husband's  opinions, 
she  also  ceased  to  criticize  the  girl.  Wint  had  heard  the  con 
versation,  but  it  made  little  impression  on  him.  He  was  think 
ing  of  other  things;  wondering,  for  example,  when  Kite  would 
make  the  first  move  in  the  conflict  that  was  sure  to  come.  He 
had  heard,  that  day  —  Gergue  told  him  —  that  Routt  was  think 
ing  of  running  for  Mayor  against  him  in  the  fall.  Wint  was 
having  difficulty  in  understanding  that.  He  knew  Routt  was  his 
friend;  and,  of  course,  political  opponents  might  still  be  per 
sonal  friends.  Nevertheless  .  .  .  The  thing  puzzled  him.  It 
did  not  jibe  with  his  opinion  of  Routt. 

After  supper  that  night,  the  elder  Chase  went  downtown. 
Wint  had  some  writing  to  do,  and  went  upstairs  to  his  room  to 
do  it.  Mrs.  Chase  had  a  caller,  Mrs.  Hullis,  from  next  door. 
They  were  sewing  and  talking  together  in  the  sitting  room. 
Wint  could  hear  the  murmur  of  his  mother's  voice,  steady  and 
persistent.  Mrs.  Hullis  was  a  good  listener. 

About  an  hour  after  supper,  Wint  realized  that  he  wanted  a 
drink  of  water.  There  was  water  in  the  bathroom;  but  there 
was  a  filter  on  the  faucet  in  the  kitchen,  and  Hardiston 
water  needed  filtering.  It  was  pure  enough,  clean  enough,  but 
there  was  a  proportion  of  iron  in  it  that  sometimes  gave  the 
water  a  slightly  rusty  color.  So  Wint  went  down  by  the  back 
stairs,  in  order  not  to  disturb  his  mother,  into  the  kitchen. 

He  found  Hetty  sitting  in  a  kitchen  chair  with  her  arms  hang- 


POOR  HETTY  277 

ing  limply  and  her  feet  outstretched  before  her.     The  girl's 
whole  body  was  slumped  down,  as  though  she  had  fainted;  and 
at  first  Wint  thought  this  was  what  had  happened,  for  Hetty's 
eyes  were  closed.     He- cried  out: 
'  "  Why,  Hetty?     What's  the  matter?     Are  you  sick?  " 

And  he  went  quickly  toward  her  across  the  kitchen. 

But  when  he  spoke,  Hetty  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him, 
and  shook  her  head.  "  No,"  she  said,  in  the  sullen  tone  that 
had  become  habitual  to  her.  "  No,  I'm  all  right." 

"You  are  not,"  Wint  protested.  "You're  as  white  as  a 
rag."  He  saw  the  dishes  piled  in  the  sink.  "You've  not 
cleaned  up  after  supper.  How  long  have  you  been  this 
way?  " 

Hetty  closed  her  eyes  wearily,  and  opened  them  again,  and 
managed  a  smile.  "  Oh,  I'm  all  right,  Wint,"  she  said. 
"  You're  a  nice  boy.  Run  along.  Don't  bother  about  me." 

Wint  laughed.  "  I'm  not  bothering.  I  want  to  help.  What 
happened?  " 

"I  —  just  felt  terribly  tired  —  all  of  a  sudden,"  she  said. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  surrender  in  her  voice;  as  though 
the  barriers  of  reserve  were  breaking  down.  "  That's  all,  Wint; 
I'm  just  tired." 

"  You  need  a  rest,"  Wint  agreed.  "  You've  been  plugging 
away,  taking  care  of  us,  for  a  long  time,  now.  Come  in  and  lie 
down  on  the  couch  in  the  dining  room." 

Hetty  shook  her  head  in  a  frightened  little  way;  the  bravado 
was  going  out  of  her.  She  seemed  very  helpless  and  feminine. 
"  No,  no,"  she  protested.  "  I'll  be  all  right  as  soon  as  I  rest  a 
little.  Do  run  along,  Wint." 

Wint  put  his  hand  on  her  forehead.  "  There's  more  than  just 
being  tired  the  matter  with  you.  You're  sick,  Hetty.  Your 
head's  hot.  I'll  tell  you,  you  go  up  and  go  to  bed,  and  I'll 
clean  up  down  here.  I'm  a  champion  dish  washer." 

Hetty  laughed  wearily.  "  You're  a  champion  decent  boy, 
Wint,"  she  said.  "  But  you'll  just  have  to  let  me  alone. 
There's  nothing  you  can  do  for  me." 

"  I  can  see  that  you  go  up  to  bed." 

"  No,  no;  I'm  all  right.     Nearly." 


278  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Wint  started  for  the  door.  "  I'm  going  to  telephone  for  a 
doctor,"  he  declared.  "You're  sick,  Hetty.  That's  the  plain 
English  of  it.  I'm  going  to  telephone." 

She  had  moved  so  swiftly  that  she  startled  him;  moved  after 
him,  caught  his  arm,  shook  it  fiercely.  "You'll  not  telephone 
for  any  one,  do  you  hear?  "  she  told  him  hotly.  "You  let  me 
alone,  Wint.  What  do  I  want  with  a  doctor !  " 

Wint  was  honestly  uneasy  about  her.  He  said :  "  Then  let 
me  call  mother.  She's  a  good  hand  to  make  sick  people  well. 
She  — " 

"  No,  no,  not  your  mother,"  Hetty  protested.  And  half  to 
herself  she  added :  "  Not  your  mother.  She  would  know." 

The  little  phrase  was  profoundly  revealing.  "  She  would 
know."  It  struck  Wint  like  a  splash  of  cold  water  in  the  face. 
"  She  would  know."  It  told  so  old  a  story.  Wint  understood, 
at  last;  and  Hetty  saw  understanding  in  his  eyes,  and  braced 
herself  to  defy  him.  But  Wint  only  said  softly: 

"Hetty?     That  .  .  .     You  poor  kid!     I'm  so  sorry." 

Hetty  laughed  harshly;  and  her  face  began  to  twist  and  work 
and  assume  strange  contortions,  and  abruptly  she  began  to 
cry.  She  turned  and  groped  her  way  to  the  chair  again,  and 
sat  down  with  her  head  pillowed  on  her  arms  on  the  table,  and 
sobbed  as  though  her  heart  was  broken.  Wint  stood  very  still, 
stunned  and  miserable,  watching  her.  There  was  no  sound  at 
all  in  the  kitchen  except  the  sound  of  Hetty's  racking,  choking 
sobs.  In  the  stillness,  Wint  could  hear  the  even  murmur  of  his 
mother's  voice,  three  rooms  away,  as  she  talked  to  Mrs.  Hullis. 
He  could  almost  hear  the  words  she  said.  And  Hetty  sobbed, 
with  her  head  on  her  arms. 

Wint  went  across  to  her  and  touched  her  head  with  his  hand; 
and  she  brushed  it  away  with  an  angry  gesture,  as  a  hurt  dog 
snarls  at  the  hand  that  comes  to  heal  its  hurt.  She  was  like  a 
hurt  animal,  he  thought;  she  was  quite  alone  in  the  world. 
Worse  than  alone,  for  she  was  here  in  Hardiston,  where  every 
one  would  make  her  business  their  business.  For  that  is  the 
way  of  small  towns.  Wint  was  terribly  sorry  for  her,  terri 
bly  anxious  to  help  her.  He  had  no  thought,  in  this  moment, 
of  Jack  Routes  warnings;  and  if  he  had  remembered  them,  they 


POOR  HETTY  279 

would  only  have  hardened  his  determination  to  help  her.  Which 
may  have  been  what  Jack  intended. 

He  said :  "  Cry  it  out,  Hetty.     Then  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

She  said  thickly :  "  Go  away.  Let  me  alone."  But  Wint 
did  not  move,  while  she  cried  and  cried. 

He  stood  just  beside  her.  Hetty  at  last  shifted  her  position, 
so  that  she  could  look  down  between  her  arms  and  see  his 
feet  where  he  waited.  She  said  again: 

"  Go  away." 

Wint  chuckled  comfortingly.  "  I'm  not  going  away,"  he 
said.  "  This  is  the  time  your  friends  will  stick  by  you.  I'm 
going  to  stick  by  you." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  want  any  one  to. 
Go  away.  Let  me  alone.  Let  me  do  what  I  want  to." 

Wint  said :  "  You  mustn't  think  this  is  too  desperately  hope 
less,  Hetty.  I'm  going  to  do  anything  I  can;  and  mother  will 
take  care  of  you." 

She  lifted  her  head  at  that  and  looked  at  him  and  laughed  in 
a  hard,  disillusioned  way.  "  A  lot  you  know  about  women, 
Wint,"  she  said. 

"  I  know  that  you  think  things  are  darker  than  they  are," 
he  assured  her.  "  You'll  see.  We'll  manage.  Mother  and  I." 

"Your  mother'll  order  me  out  of  the  house,  minute  she 
knows,"  said  Hetty  unemotionally. 

Wint  protested.  "  No ;  you  don't  know  her.  Mother  couldn't 
hurt  any  one.  You'll  see.  She'll  do  everything." 

Hetty  got  up  and  went  to  work  on  the  dishes  like  an  automa 
ton.  She  had  to  busy  herself  with  something,  or  she  would 
have  screamed.  She  was  trembling,  hysterically  astir.  Wint 
watched  her  for  a  little;  then  he  said: 

"  You're  going  to  let  us  help  you." 

"All  the  help  I'll  get  will  be  a  kick,"  she  said.  "Your 
mother  won't  want  the  like  of  me  in  her  house." 

"  You  don't  know  her,"  he  insisted.  "  Mother's  fine,  under 
neath.  She's  always  doing  things  for  people.  You'll  see." 

Hetty  looked  at  him  sideways,  smiling  a  little.  "  You  never 
would  believe  anything  was  so  till  you'd  tried  it,  Wint,"  she 
told  him.  "  But  you're  pretty  decent,  just  the  same." 


280  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

He  said,  studying  her:  "You're  looking  better  already. 
Feeling  better?  " 

She  nodded.  "  It  helps  some  —  just  to  tell  some  one,"  she 
admitted.  "And  the  spell  is  over,  anyway." 

"  Having  friends  always  helps,"  he  told  her.  "  You'll  find 
it  so."  She  smiled  wistfully ;  and  he  went  on :  "  I'm  going  to 
speak  to  mother  to-night." 

Hetty  said :  "  Well,  she's  got  a  right  to  know.  I'll  pack  up 
my  things." 

"  After  Mrs.  Hullis  goes." 

"  Why  not  tell  her,  too?  Your  mother  will,  first  thing  in  the 
morning." 

Wint  laughed.  "You  like  to  look  at  the  black  side,  don't 
you?  I  tell  you,  it's  going  to  be  all  right." 

She  whirled  to  face  him,  and  said,  under  her  breath,  with 
a  terrible  earnestness:  "All  right?  All  right?  If  you  say 
that  again,  I'll  yell  at  you.  You  poor,  nice,  straight  fool  of 
a  kid.  You  talk  like  I  was  a  baby  that  had  stubbed  its 
toe.  And  all  the  time,  I'd  better  be  dead,  dead.  This  is  no 
stubbed  toe,  Wint.  Wake  up.  Don't  be  a  — " 

And  abruptly  she  collapsed  again,  weeping,  into  the  chair. 

Wint  said  insistently:  "Just  the  same,  Hetty,  you'll  see  I 
know  what  I'm  talking  about.  Things  will  come  out  better 
than  you  think." 

She  cried :  "  Oh,  get  out  of  here.  Get  out  of  here.  You  poor 
little  fool." 

Wint  went  up  to  his  room.  Mrs.  Hullis  was  still  with  his 
mother.  He  would  wait  till  Mrs.  Hullis  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   MERCY   OF   THE   COURT 

MRS.  HULLIS  stayed  late,  and  Wint  had  time  to  do 
some  thinking  before  she  finally  departed.  But  he 
did  very  little.  He  was  in  no  mood  for  thinking.  It 
was  characteristic  of  Wint  that  when  his  sympathies  were 
aroused,  he  was  an  unfaltering  partisan;  and  there  was  no 
question  that  his  sympathies  had  been  aroused  in  behalf  of 
Hetty. 

It  was  equally  characteristic  of  him  that  he  wasted  very  little 
time  wondering  who  was  to  blame  for  what  had  happened; 
and  that  he  wasted  no  time  at  all  in  considering  what  Hardiston 
would  say  about  it  all.  He  was  going  to  help  the  girl;  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  that.  The  rest  did  not  matter  at  all. 

He  counted  on  his  mother's  sympathy  and  understanding;  and 
when,  after  a  time,  he  heard  her  showing  Mrs.  Hullis  to  the 
door,  and  heard  their  two  voices  upraised  in  a  last  babel  as 
they  cleaned  up  the  tag  ends  of  conversation  and  said  good-by, 
he  went  out  into  the  upper  hall,  to  be  ready  to  descend.  Hetty 
had  gone  upstairs  a  little  earlier;  he  could  hear  her  now, 
moving  about  in  her  room. 

His  mother  went  out  on  the  front  steps  with  Mrs.  Hullis,  to 
be  sure  no  word  had  been  forgotten;  and  when  she  came  in 
after  her  visitor  had  gone,  Wint  was  waiting  for  her.  She 
said :  "  Why,  Wint,  I  thought  you'd  gone  to  bed  long  ago.  I 
told  Mrs.  Hullis  you  were  studying  the  law  books  up  in  your 
room.  Mr.  Hullis  is  a  lawyer,  you  know.  She  says  he  brings 
his  books  home  and  sits  up  half  the  night,  but  I  told  her  you 
were  always  one  to  go  early  to  bed,  ever  since  you  was  a  boy. 
And  she  said  she — " 

Wint  took  her  arm  good-naturedly.  "  There,  mother,"  he 
interrupted.  "  I  don't  care  what  Mrs.  Hullis  said.  I  want  to 

281 


282  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

talk  to  you  about  something  that  has  just  come  up.  Come  in 
and  sit  down." 

Mrs.  Chase,  like  most  talkative  women,  was  habitually  so 
absorbed  in  her  own  conversation  and  her  own  thoughts  that 
it  was  hard  to  surprise  her.  She  took  Wint's  announcement  as 
a  matter  of  course;  and  they  went  into  the  sitting  room  arm 
in  arm,  and  she  picked  up  her  sewing  basket  and  sat  down  in 
the  chair  she  had  occupied  all  evening,  and  began  to  rock 
primly  back  and  forth  while  she  stretched  a  sock  on  her  fin 
gers  to  discover  any  holes  it  might  have  acquired.  ".  .  .  do 
get  such  a  comfort  out  of  talking  to  Mrs.  Hullis,"  she  was 
saying,  as  she  sat  down.  "  She's  such  a  nice  woman,  Wint.  I 
never  could  see  why  you  didn't  like  her  more.  She  and  I  — " 

Wint  said :  "  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Mrs.  Hullis, 
mother.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Hetty." 

Mrs.  Chase  did  drop  her  work  in  her  lap  at  that.  "About 
Hetty?"  she  echoed.  "Why  should  you  want  to  talk  about 
Hetty?  Wint!  You're  never  going  to  marry  her,  are  you? 
I—" 

Wint  laughed.  "No,  no.  Not  that  Hetty  isn't  a  nice  girl; 
and  she'll  make  some  fellow  a  mighty  fine  wife.  But  I  want 
to—" 

"  There,"  said  Mrs.  Chase,  immensely  reassured.  "  I  knew  it 
couldn't  be  that.  I  always  knew  you  and  Joan.  ...  I  said 
to  Mrs.  Hullis  to-night  that  you  and  Joan  were  friendly  as  ever. 
She's  a  nice  girl,  Wint.  I  don't  see  why  you  don't  get  married 
right  away.  Your  father  and  I  were  married  before  — " 

Wint  said,  persistently  bringing  her  back  to  the  point:  "  I 
don't  want  to  talk  about  Joan,  either,  mother.  It's  Hetty." 

"  Well,  I  should  think  you  would  want  to  talk  about  Joan," 
Mrs.  Chase  declared.  "  She's  worth  talking  about.  I'm  sure 
she  wouldn't  like  it  very  much  to  know  you  didn't  want  to  talk 
about  her,  Wint.  She—" 

"Mother,"  Wint  insisted.  "Hetty  needs  our  help.  I  want 
you  to  — " 

Mrs.  Chase  looked  at  him  with  a  face  that  had  suddenly 
turned  white  and  cold.  She  put  one  trembling  hand  to  her 


THE  MERCY  OF  THE  COURT        283 

throat.  "  Wint?  "  she  asked,  in  a  husky  whisper.  "  What's  the 
matter  with  Hetty?  What  are  you  talking  about?  What  is 
the—" 

"Hetty's  going  to  have  a JfeiV baby,"  said  Wint  gently. 

Mrs.  Chase  exclaimed:  "Wint!  You're  not  ...  You 
haven't  ...  It  isn't  you?  " 

"  No,  no,"  Wint  said  impatiently.     "  Of  course  not.     I  — " 

"The  shameless  girl!  "  his  mother  cried,  all  her  alarm  turn 
ing  into  anger.  "  The  shameless  hussy.  In  my  house.  I 
declare  — " 

"  Please,"  her  son  protested.     His  mother  got  up. 

"  She  sha'n't  sleep  another  night  under  my  roof,"  she  de 
clared.  "  I  never  thought  to  live  to  — " 

"  Mother,"  said  Wint,  so  sternly  that  his  mother  stopped  in 
the  doorway.  "  Come  back,"  he  told  her.  And  she  obeyed 
him,  protesting  weakly.  "  Sit  down,"  he  said.  "  Hetty  needs 
our  help.  Don't  you  understand?  " 

When  a  wolf  is  injured,  his  own  pack  pulls  him  down; 
when  a  crow  is  hurt,  his  fellows  of  the  flock  peck  him  to  death 
relentlessly;  but  wolf  and  crow  are  merciful  compared  to 
womankind.  There  is  no  deeper  instinct  in  woman  than  that 
which  condemns  the  sister  who  has  strayed.  It  is  true  that,  in 
many  women,  the  compassion  overpowers  the  cruelty  of 
wrath.  But  Mrs.  Chase  was  a  very  simple  person,  elemental, 
a  woman  and  nothing  more.  She  sat  down  at  Wint's  com 
mand;  but  she  said  implacably: 

"  I  won't  have  her  in  the  house,  Wint.  A  girl  like  that.  I 
should  think  you'd  be  ashamed  to  stand  up  for  her.  A  shame 
less,  worthless  thing.  .  .  .  You  can  talk  all  you're  a  mind  to, 
but  I'm  going  to  send  her  packing.  You  and  your  father  have 
your  own  way,  most  of  the  time,  but  this  is  once  that  I'm  going 
to  have  mine.  I  always  knew  she  was  too  pretty  for  any 
good.  Pretty,  and  impudent,  and  all.  I  won't  have  her  — " 

Wint  asked:  "Hasn't  she  worked  hard  enough  for  you? 
Done  her  work  well?  Tried  to  do  what  you  wanted?  " 

"  Course  she's  done  her  work,  or  I  wouldn't  have  kept  her. 
That  hasn't  a  thing  to  do  with  it,  Wint.  I'm  surprised  at  you. 


284  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

standing  up  for  her.  I  told  Mrs.  Hullis,  only  the  other  day, 
that  she  was  too  pretty  for  her  own  good.  I  might  have  known 
she  would  get  into  trouble.  The  nasty  little  — " 

"  Mother,"  Wint  cried  sharply,  "  I  won't  let  you  talk  like  that. 
I  told  Hetty  we'd  help  her;  and  she  said  you'd  be  against  her; 
and  I  wouldn't  believe  it.  I  can't  believe  it.  A  poor  girl 
without  a  friend  anywhere,  in  the  worst  kind  of  trouble,  and 
you—" 

"  Wint,  I  don't  see  why  you  stand  up  for  her  if  you 
aren't—" 

"You  know  I'm  not.  Don't  be  ridiculous,  mother.  But 
I've  known  her  all  our  lives.  Grew  up  with  her.  And  I'm 
going  to  — " 

His  mother  shook  her  head  positively:  "I'm  not  going  to 
have  her  in  the  house,  Wint.  You  don't  need  to  talk  any  more. 
That's  all  there  is  to  it.  I  won't!  " 

"  I  counted  on  you." 

"  Well,  you  needn't  to  count  on  me  any  more.  I  know 
what's  best;  and  I'm  not  going  to  have  that  shameless — " 

She  was  interrupted,  this  time,  by  the  arrival  of  Wint's  father. 
They  heard  the  front  door  open,  and  heard  him  come  in.  Wint 
got  up  and  went  to  the  door  that  led  into  the  hall.  The  elder 
Chase  was  hanging  up  his  hat.  Mrs.  Chase,  behind  Wint,  was 
talking  steadily.  Wint  said  to  his  father: 

"  Come  in,  will  you?  Mother  and  I  are  talking  something 
over." 

Chase  nodded ;  but  he  had  news  of  his  own.  "  Heard  up 
town  to-night  that  Routt's  going  to  run  against  you  in  the  fall," 
he  said.  "  Did  you  know  that,  Wint?  " 

Wint  nodded.     "  I'd  heard  so." 

"  I  thought  you  and  he  were  good  friends." 

"We  are,"  Wint  said  good-naturedly.  "But  that  doesn't 
prevent  our  being  political  enemies.  He's  had  some  break 
with  Amos.  Come  in,  dad.  I  want  you  to  hear  — " 

But  the  older  man  heard  it  first  from  Mrs.  Chase.  She  came 
across  the  room  to  meet  them,  pouring  it  out  indignantly. 
"  And  Wint  wants  me  to  keep  her,"  she  concluded.  "  Wants 
me  to  keep  that  girl  in  the  house  after  this.  I  told  him  — " 


THE  MERCY  OF  THE  COURT        285 

Chase  asked:  "What's  that?  Wint,  what  is  this?  Hetty  — 
in  trouble?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Wint.  "I  found  it  out  to-night;  and  I 
promised  her  we'd  stand  by  her.  Help  her." 

Chase  demanded  sharply:  "What  right  had  you  to  commit 
us?  If  she  chooses  to  destroy  herself,  how  does  that  concern 
us?  I'm  surprised  at  you,  Wint.  It's  impossible." 

Wint  said,  in  a  steady  voice :  "  She  needs  friends  badly.  She 
hasn't  any  one  to  turn  to.  And  Hetty's  a  good  sort,  under 
neath.  I  told  her  — " 

"  Why  doesn't  she  turn  to  the  man?  "  Chase  interjected. 
"  He's  the  one  that  ought  to  — " 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  haven't  thought  of  him,"  said  Wint. 
"  But  if  he  were  likely  to  help  her,  it  seems  to  me  he  would 
have  taken  a  hand  before  this.  Don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  Don't  I  think  so?  "  Wint's  father  was  outraged  and  angry. 
"  I  don't  think  anything  about  it.  It's  no  concern  of  ours,  so 
long  as  she  packs  herself  out  of  here.  Let  her  get  out  of  her 
own  mess." 

"  I'm  going  to  make  it  a  concern  of  mine,"  said  Wint,  his 
jaw  stiffening.  "  I'm  not  going  to  see  her  turned  adrift.  I'm 
going  to  help  her." 

Chase  looked  at  him  keenly.  "  By  God,  Wint,  is  this  your 
doing?  Are  you  — " 

Wint  said,  a  little  wearily :  "  That  was  the  first  thing  mother 
asked.  You  people  don't  think  very  highly  of  me,  do  you?  " 

"  Isn't  it  the  natural  question  to  ask?  "  his  father  demanded. 
"  Isn't  it  the  only  possible  explanation  of  this  attitude  on  your 
part?  Is  it  true,  young  man?  That  you — " 

"  Have  it  any  way  you  want,"  Wint  exclaimed,  too  angry  to 
deny  again.  "  I  don't  care.  The  point  is  this.  Hetty  is  in 
trouble;  she  needs  friends.  I've  promised  that  we  would  help 
her.  I've  promised  you  and  mother  would  back  me  up.  I 
counted  on  you." 

Chase  lifted  his  hand  in  a  terrible,  silent  rage.  "You 
want  to  shame  us,  your  mother  and  me,  in  the  face  of  all 
Hardiston.  I  tell  you,  Wint,  whether  it's  your  doing  or  not, 
you're  crazy.  If  it's  you  —  then  we'll  give  her  some  money 


286  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

and   get   rid   of  her.     If  it's  not,   then   she   gets   out   of  here 
to-night.     Inside  the  hour." 

Wint  said,  half  to  himself:  "We'd  have  to  send  her  away, 
in  any  case.  Somewhere.  For  a  while." 

Chase  laughed  bitterly.  "  All  right.  If  this  is  a  new  scrape 
you've  got  yourself  into,  I'll  buy  you  out  of  it.  How  much 
does  the  girl  want?  " 

Wint  flamed  at  him:  "  It's  not  my  concern,  I  tell  you.  You 
ought  not  to  need  to  be  told." 

"Then  get  her  out  of  the  house,"  Chase  exclaimed;  "as 
quick  as  you  can.  Or  I  will.  Where  is  she?  "  He  turned 
toward  the  door. 

But  Wint  was  before  him;  blocked  the  doorway.  "Father," 
he  said.  "  You  and  mother.  .  .  .  I've  promised  her  help. 
Promised  you  would  be  good  to  her." 

"  The  more   fool   you.     She  goes  out  to-night." 

"  If  she  goes,"  Wint  cried,  "  I  go  with  her.  You  can  do  as 
you  please." 

For  a  little  after  that,  there  was  silence  in  the  room.  Wint 
stood  in  the  doorway,  head  high  and  eyes  hot.  His  father 
faced  him.  His  mother  stood  by  her  chair,  across  the  room, 
her  lips  moving  soundlessly.  It  was  she  who  first  found  voice. 
She  came  toward  Wint  in  a  clumsy,  stumbling  little  run;  and  she 
caught  his  arms,  and  she  pleaded  with  him. 

"  Don't  you  do  that,  Wint.  Don't  you.  Don't  go  away  and 
leave  us  again.  We're  getting  old,  sonny.  Your  father  and  I. 
Your  old  mother.  Don't  you  go  away.  We'd.  .  .  .  We 
couldn't  ever  stand  it  again.  We — " 

Wint  said  gently :  "  I  don't  want  to  go.  I  want  to  stay  at 
home  here  with  you  both,  and  be  proud  of  you,  and  love 
you." 

"You  shall  stay,"  she  told  him.  "You  shall.  Anything 
you  want,  Wint,  sonny.  I  don't  care  whether  you  did  it  or  not. 
I'll  be  good  to  her.  I  will,  Wint.  If  you'll  stay  — " 

The  boy  said,  half  abashed :  "  I  don't  want  to  seem  to  drive 
you  to  it.  Only  —  I've  promised  her.  I  can't  break  my  word 
to  her.  Please,  can't  you  see?  " 


THE  MERCY  OF  THE  COURT        287 

"It's  all  right,"  his  mother  protested.  "I'll  do  anything." 
She  clutched  her  husband's  arm.  "  Tell  him  to  stay,  Winthrop," 
she  begged.  "Don't  let  him  go  away.  We'll  take  care  of 
Hetty." 

Chase  said:  "You're  making  lots  of  trouble  for  us,  Wint." 
He  smiled  a  little  unsteadily.  "  We're  too  old  for  so  much 
excitement.  You'll  have  to  remember  that.  Remember  to  take 
care  of  us  —  as  well  as  Hetty." 

Wint  could  not  hold  out.  He  said:  "All  right.  I  won't 
go  away.  Do  as  you  think  best  about  Hetty.  I  hope  you'll 
let  her—" 

"I'll  keep  her,"  his  mother  cried.  "I'll  be  as  good  as  I 
know  to  her." 

And  his  father  echoed:  "We'll  take  care  of  her,  Wint." 

"You're  doing  it  because  you  want  to,"  Wint  pleaded. 
"  You  don't  have  to.  I'll  stay  anyway.  But  I  —  hope  you'll 
want  to  help  her,  anyway." 

"  Yes,"  Chase  said.  "  We'll  keep  her  —  because  we  want  to. 
Do  what  we  can." 

But  they  were  not  to  keep  her  very  long,  for  Hetty's  time 
was  near.  It  was  decided  that  she  should  go  to  Columbus 
for  a  little  while,  returning  to  them  in  the  fall.  Wint  wrote  a 
check  to  cover  her  expenses.  Hetty's  old  sullenness  had  re 
turned  to  her.  She  took  the  check  without  thanks,  and  tucked 
it  away  in  her  pocketbook.  She  was  to  go  to  the  train  alone, 
to  avoid  talk. 

The  night  of  her  going,  Jack  Routt  met  V.  R.  Kite,  and  took 
Kite  to  his  office.  And  he  told  him  certain  things,  an  evil 
elation  in  his  eyes.  Told  him  in  detail  that  which  he  had 
planned. 

Kite  listened  with  eyes  shining;  and  at  the  end  he  said: 
"  He'll  deny  it.  What  can  you  prove?  " 

"  This  proves  the  whole  thing,"  said  Routt  triumphantly,  and 
slid  a  slip  of  paper  across  the  desk  to  Kite.  Kite  looked  at 
it.  A  check,  drawn  by  Winthrop  Chase,  Junior,  to  the  order  of 
Henrietta  Morfee. 


288  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

The  buzzard  of  a  man  banged  his  hard  old  fist  upon  the 
table.  "By  God,  Routt!  "  he  cried,  "we  win.  We'll  skin 
that  cub.  We'll  hang  his  hide  on  the  barn!  " 

Routt  reached  into  the  drawer  of  his  desk.  "  And  that 
means,"  he  said,  "  that  it's  time  to  have  a  drink.  Say  when?  " 

END   OF   BOOK   IV 


BOOK  V 
DEFEAT 


CHAPTER  I 

SUNNY   SKIES 

A  this  time,  and  for  a  long  while  afterward,  it  seemed 
to  Wint  that  all  was  well  with  the  world.  He  had 
some  reason  to  think  so.  He  kept  his  promise  to 
Hetty;  and  that  matter,  which  had  threatened  to  cause  a  dif 
ference  between  him  and  his  father  and  mother,  had  resulted 
in  the  end  in  a  closer  understanding  between  them.  They  had 
let  him  see  their  dependence  on  him;  they  had  let  him  see 
something  of  the  depths  of  affection  in  their  hearts  for  him. 
The  Chases  were  not  a  demonstrative  family ;  not  given  to  much 
talk  of  these  matters,  and  Wint  found  their  attitude  in  some 
sort  a  happy  revelation.  His  father  began,  in  an  uncertain 
way,  to  defer  to  Wint;  the  elder  Chase  began  to  ask  his  son's 
advice,  now  and  then;  he  seemed  to  have  recognized  the  fact 
of  Wint's  manhood ;  he  seemed  to  'have  discovered  that  Wint 
was  no  longer  a  boy.  There  was  a  new  respect  in  his  bear 
ing  toward  his  son. 

Wint's  mother  had  changed,  too;  she  was,  perhaps,  a  little 
less  loquacious.  She  and  the  elder  Chase  were  beginning  to  be 
proud  of  Wint;  and  this  pride  forced  them  to  see  him  in  a  new 
light.  Not  as  their  boy,  their  son,  their  child;  but  as  a  man 
whom  other  men  respected. 

For  Wint  was  respected.  That  was  one  of  the  things  that 
made  the  world  look  bright  to  him.  He  was  surprised  to  find, 
as  the  days  passed,  and  as  it  was  seen  that  his  orders  to  clean 
up  the  town  were  being  enforced,  that  good  citizens  rallied  to 
him.  Hardiston  was  normally  a  law-abiding,  decent  place;  its 
people  were  normally  decent  and  law-abiding  people.  They 
would  not  have  condemned  Wint  for  failure  to  enforce  the  law. 
In  fact,  with  his  antecedents,  they  had  expected  him  to  fail. 
They  were  the  more  pleased  when  he  did  enforce  it;  and  they 
took  occasion  to  let  him  see  it.  Also,  they  took  occasion  to  tell 

291 


292  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

the  elder  Chase  that  his  son  was  doing  well;  and  Winthrop 
Chase,  Senior,  took  a  diffident  pride  in  these  assurances. 
Chase  was  never  a  hypocrite,  even  with  himself;  he  could  not 
forget  that  he  had  urged  Wint  to  rescind  those  orders  to  Rada- 
baugh. 

Wint  found  a  surprising  number  and  variety  of  people  rally 
ing  to  his  support,  in  those  days  after  his  clash  with  the  carni 
val  men  and  his  victory  in  that  matter.  Dick  Hoover's  father, 
for  example;  a  solid  man,  a  lawyer  of  the  old  school,  and  one 
who  spoke  little  and  to  the  point.  Hoover  told  Wint  he  had 
done  well. 

Wint  said  he  had  tried  to  do  well. 

"  You  understand,  young  man,"  Hoover  drawled  in  the  slow, 
whimsical  fashion  that  was  characteristic  of  him.  "  You  under 
stand,  I'm  no  teetotaller,  myself.  I've  been  accustomed  to  a 
drink,  when  I  chose,  for  a  good  many  years.  This  —  crusade 
—  of  yours  has  made  it  damned  inconvenient  for  me,  too.  But 
it's  a  good  cause.  I've  no  complaint.  More  power  to  your 
elbow!" 

Wint  laughed,  and  said :  "  I  guess  there  would  be  no  kick 
at  anything  you  might  do,  sir." 

Hoover  nodded.  "  Oh,  of  course,  I  could  bring  the  stuff  in 
if  I  chose.  But  a  man  can't  afford  to  be  on  the  wrong  side 
in  these  matters,  you  know;  not  if  he  wants  to  keep  his  self- 
respect.  And  I  can  do  without  it.  I  can  do  without  it.  Stick 
to  your  guns,  young  man." 

"  I'm  going  to,"  Wint  told  him,  flushed  and  proud  at  the  older 
man's  praise.  "  I'm  going  to,  sir." 

Peter  Gergue  came  to  Wint,  scratching  the  back  of  his  head 
and  grinning  a  sly  and  knowing  grin,  and  told  Wint  he  was 
making  votes  by  what  he  had  done.  "  That's  a  funny  thing, 
too,"  said  Gergue.  "  Man'd  think  you'd  make  a  pile  of  enemies. 
But  I  could  name  two  or  three  of  the  worst  soaks  in  town  that 
say  you're  all  right;  got  good  stuff  in  you;  all  that."  Gergue 
scratched  his  head  again.  "Yes,  sir,  men  are  funny  things, 
Wint." 

Wint  had  never  particularly  liked  Gergue,  because  he  had 
never  seen  under  the  surface  of  the  man.  He  was  coming  to 


SUNNY  SKIES  293 

have  a  quite  genuine  respect  and  affection  for  Amos's  lieutenant. 
"  I'm  not  doing  it  to  make  votes,"  he  said  good-naturedly. 

"  That's  the  reason  you're  making  votes  by  it,"  Gergue  as 
sured  him.  "  And  that's  the  way  politics  goes.  Take  James 
T.  Hollow  now;  he's  always  trying  to  do  what  is  right.  He 
says  so  hisself.  But  it  don't  get  him  anywhere;  and  I  reckon 
that's  because  he  does  what's  right  because  he  thinks  there's  votes 
in  it.  You  go  ahead  and  do  it  anyway.  Maybe  you  do  it 
because  you  think  it'll  start  a  fight.  Make  some  folks  mad. 
And  instead  of  that,  they  eat  out  o'  your  hand." 

Wint  nodded.  "  Even  Kite,"  he  said.  "  He  made  some  fuss 
at  first.  But  it  looks  as  though  he  had  decided  to  take  it  lying 
down." 

Gergue  shook  his  head.  "  Don't  you  make  any  mistake  about 
V.  R.  Kite,"  he  warned  Wint.  "He  don't  like  a  fight,  much. 
Getting  too  old.  But  he'll  fight  when  he's  got  a  gun  in  both 
hands.  He'll  play  poker  when  he  holds  four  aces  and  the 
joker.  V.  R.  will  start  something  when  he's  ready.  I  wasn't 
talking  about  him." 

"  I'm  ready  when  he  is,"  Wint  declared. 

"  He  won't  be  ready  till  he  thinks  you  ain't,"  Gergue  insisted. 

But  Wint  was  in  no  mood  to  be  depressed  by  a  possibility  of 
future  trouble.  In  fact,  he  rather  looked  forward  to  this  poten 
tial  clash  with  V.  R.  Kite.  It  added  to  the  zest  of  life. 

Old  Mrs.  Mueller,  who  ran  the  bakery,  whispered  to  Wint 
when  he  stopped  for  a  loaf  of  bread  one  night  that  he  was  a 
fine  boy.  "  My  Hans,"  she  said  gratefully.  "  He  is  working 
now;  and  that  he  would  never  do  when  he  could  get  his  beer 
regular,  every  second  day  a  case  of  it.  And  there  is  more 
money  in  the  drawer  all  the  time,  too." 

And  Davy  Morgan,  the  foreman  of  his  father's  furnace,  told 
Wint  that  save  for  one  or  two  irreconcilables,  the  men  at  the 
furnace  were  with  him.  "And  the  men  that  kick  the  most, 
they  are  the  ones  who  are  the  better  off  for  it,"  he  explained, 
in  the  careful  English  of  an  old  Welshman  to  whom  the  lan 
guage  must  always  be  an  acquired  and  unfamiliar  instrument. 
"  William  Ryan  has  never  been  fit  for  work  on  Mondays  until 


294  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Murchie,  Attorney  General  of  the  state,  who  lived  up  the 
creek,  and  who  had  been  a  speaker  at  the  elder  Chase's  rallies 
in  the  last  mayoral  campaign,  happened  into  town  one  day 
and  told  Wint  he  had  heard  of  the  matter  at  Columbus  and  that 
people  were  talking  about  him,  Wint  Chase,  up  there.  "  They 
knew  old  Kite,  you  see,"  he  told  Wint.  "  He  comes  up  there 
to  lob.by  on  every  liquor  bill;  and  they  like  to  see  him  get  a 
kick  in  the  slats,  as  you  might  say.  But  you'll  have  to  look 
out  for  him." 

"  I'm  going  to,"  Wint  assured  Murchie. 

"  If  you  can  down  Kite,  there'll  be  a  place  for  you  at  Colum 
bus,  some  day,"  Murchie  predicted.  "  They  don't  like  Kite,  up 
there." 

Sam  O'Brien,  the  fat  restaurant  man,  stopped  laughing  long 
enough  to  tell  Wint  he  was  all  right,  had  good  stuff  in  him, 
was  a  comer.  "  The  Greek  next  door,"  he  explained.  "  He 
thinks  you're  a  tin  god.  He  runs  the  candy  store,  you  know. 
Says  there  never  was  so  much  candy  sold.  He'll  vote  for  you, 
my  boy.  If  he  ever  gets  his  papers.  And  learns  to  read.  And 
if  you  live  that  long." 

Wint  got  most  pleasure,  perhaps,  out  of  the  attitude  of  B.  B. 
Beecham.  He  had  an  honest  respect  for  the  editor's  opinion 
on  most  matters.  Every  one  had.  Beecham  was  habitually 
right.  In  his  editorial  capacity,  he  took  no  notice  of  what  had 
come  to  pass  in  Hardiston.  When  the  carnival  men  were 
arrested,  he  printed  the  fact  without  comment.  "  Michael  Rand 
was  fined  for  assault  and  improper  language,"  the  Journal  said. 
The  other  man  for  "  illegal  sales  of  liquor."  And  the  "  per 
mit  of  the  carnival  for  the  use  of  the  streets  was  canceled." 
Thus  the  news  was  recorded,  and  every  man  might  draw  his  own 
deductions.  B.  B.  was  never  one  to  force  his  opinions  on  any 
man,  which  may  have  been  the  reason  why  people  went  out  of 
their  way  to  discover  them. 

Wint  stopped  in  at  the  Journal  office  one  hot  day  in  July. 
B.  B.  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  and  collarless.  He  wore,  habit 
ually,  stiff-bosomed  shirts  of  the  kind  usually  associated  with 
evening  dress.  On  this  particular  day,  he  had  been  working 
over  the  press  —  his  foreman  was  ill  —  and  there  were  inky 


SUNNY  SKIES  295 

smears  on  the  white  bosom.  Nevertheless,  B.  B.'s  pink  coun 
tenance  above  the  shirt  was  as  clean  as  a  baby's  There  was 
always  this  refreshing  atmosphere  of  cleanliness  about  the 
editor.  Wint  came  into  the  office  and  sat  down  in  one  of  the 
chairs  and  took  off  his  hat  and  fanned  himself.  The  afternoon 
sun  was  beginning  to  strike  in  through  the  open  door  and  the 
big  window;  but  there  was  a  pleasantly  cool  breath  from  the 
dark  regions  behind  the  office  where  the  press  and  the  apparatus 
that  goes  to  make  a  small-town  printing  shop  were  housed. 
Wint  said: 

"  This  is  one  hot  day." 

"Hottest  day  of  the  summer,"  B.  B.  agreed. 

"  How  hot  is  it?     Happen  to  know?  " 

"  Ninety-four  in  the  shade  at  one  o'clock,"  said  B.  B.  "  Mr. 
Waters  telephoned  to  me,  half  an  hour  ago." 

"  J.  B.  Waters?     He  keeps  a  weather  record,  doesn't  he?  " 

"  Yes.  Has,  for  a  good  many  years.  We  print  his  record 
every  week.  Perhaps  you  haven't  noticed  it." 

Wint  nodded.  "Yes.  I  suppose  every  one  likes  to  read 
about  the  weather.  Even  on  a  hot  day." 

B.  B.  smiled.  "  That's  because  every  one  likes  to  read  about 
things  they  have  experienced.  You  won't  find  a  big  daily  in 
the  country  without  its  paragraph  or  its  temperature  tables 
devoted  to  the  weather,  every  day  in  the  year.  And  a  day  like 
this  is  worth  a  front-page  story  any  time." 

"  You  know  what  a  day  like  this  always  makes  me  think  of?  " 
Wint  asked;  and  B.  B.  looked  interested.  "A  glass  of  beer," 
said  Wint.  "  Cool  and  brown,  with  beads  on  the  outside  of  the 
glass." 

The  editor  smiled.  "  The  beads  on  the  outside  of  the  glass 
won't  cool  you  off  half  as  much  as  the  beads  on  the  outside  of 
your  head,"  he  said.  "  Did  you  ever  stop  to  think  of  that?  " 

"  Sweat,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Exactly.  You  know,  when  troops  go  into  a  hot  country, 
they  get  flannel-covered  canteens;  and  when  they  want  to  cool 
off  the  water  in  the  canteens,  they  wet  the  flannel  and  let  it  dry. 
The  evaporation  of  your  own  perspiration  is  the  finest  cooling 
agency  in  the  world." 


296  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"May  be,"  Wint  agreed.     "But  it  doesn't  stop  your  thirst." 

B.  B.  said  good-naturedly:  "A  thirst  is  one  of  the  handicaps 
of  the  smoker.  I  quit  smoking  a  good  many  years  ago.  A 
non-smoker  can  satisfy  his  own  thirst  by  swallowing  his  own 
spittle.  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  thought  of  that?  " 

"  Is  that  straight?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

Wint  asked  amiably :  "  Mean  to  say  you  wouldn't  have  to 
take  a  barrel  of  water  to  cross  the  Sahara." 

"  Oh,  when  the  bodily  juices  are  exhausted,  of  course.  .  .  ." 

Wint  grinned.     "  I'll  stick  to  my  beer." 

B.  B.  laughed  and  said :  "  I  expect  a  good  many  Hardiston 
men  are  cussing  you  to-day  because  they  can't  get  beer." 

"  I  suppose  so.  I've  a  notion  to  cuss  myself."  He  added, 
a  moment  later:  "You  know,  B.  B.,  it's  surprising  to  me  how 
little  fuss  has  been  made  over  that." 

"  You  mean  —  the  —  enforcing  the   law?  " 

"Yes.     I  looked  for  a  row." 

"  Oh,  you'll  find  most  people  are  on  your  side.  You  know, 
most  people  are  for  the  decent  thing,  in  the  long  run.  That's 
what  makes  the  world  go  around." 

"Think  so?" 

"  Yes,  indeed.  If  that  weren't  so,  where  would  be  the  virtue 
in  democracy?  " 

"  Well,"  Wint  said  good-naturedly,  "  I've  always  had  an  idea 
that  a  democracy  was  a  poor  way  to  run  things,  anyway.  About 
all  you  can  say  for  it  is  that  a  man  has  a  right  to  make  a  fool 
of  himself." 

"  Well,  that's  about  all  you  can  say  against  slavery,  isn't  it?  " 

Wint  considered.     "  I  don't  get  you." 

"  There  were  good  men  in  the  South  before  the  war,  owning 
slaves,"  said  B.  B.  "  And  the  slaves  were  better  off  than  their 
descendants  are  now.  Materially;  perhaps  morally,  too.  But 
that  doesn't  prove  slavery  was  right."  He  added:  "  The  darkies 
had  a  right  to  make  fools  of  themselves  if  they  chose,  you  see. 
Their  masters  —  even  the  good  masters  —  prevented  them." 

"I  suppose  that's  what  a  benevolent  despot  does?  " 

"Exactly." 


SUNNY  SKIES  297 

"  If  it  wasn't  so  hot,  I'd  give  three  cheers  for  democracy." 
He  considered  thoughtfully,  fanning  himself  with  his  hat. 
"  But  that's  what  I'm  doing,  B.  B.  I'm  refusing  to  let  some 
that  would  like  to,  make  fools  of  themselves  with  booze." 

B.  B.  shook  his  head.  "Not  at  all.  It's  not  your  doing. 
The  people  are  doing  it  themselves.  They  voted  dry;  they 
elected  you  to  enforce  their  vote.  See  the  distinction?  " 

"Think  I've  done  right,  then?  "  Wint  asked. 

And  B.  B.  said:  "Yes,  indeed."  Wint  got  a  surprising 
amount  of  satisfaction  out  of  that.  Because,  as  has  been  said, 
he  valued  B.  B.'s  opinion. 

So,  on  the  whole,  that  month  of  July  was  a  cheerful  one  for 
Wint.  Things  were  going  his  way;  the  world  was  bright;  the 
skies  were  sunny. 

The  first  cloud  upon  them  came  on  the  second  of  August. 
It  was  a  very  little  cloud;  but  it  was  a  forerunner  of  bigger 
ones  to  come.  Wint  did  not,  in  the  beginning,  appreciate  its 
full  significance.  In  fact,  he  was  not  sure  it  had  any  sig 
nificance  at  all.  It  merely  puzzled  him. 

His  month's  statement  from  the  bank  came  in.  When  it 
first  came,  he  tossed  the  long  envelope  aside  without  opening  it; 
and  it  was  not  till  that  night  that  he  compared  the  bank  state 
ment  with  the  balance  in  his  check  book. 

He  discovered,  then,  that  there  was  a  mistake  somewhere. 
The  bank  credited  him  with  more  money  than  he  should  have 
had.  He  said  to  himself,  good-naturedly,  that  he  ought  not  to 
kick  about  that.  Nevertheless,  he  ran  through  his  canceled 
checks,  comparing  them  with  his  stubs,  to  see  where  the  dif 
ference  lay. 

He  located  the  discrepancy  almost  at  once;  and  when  he 
discovered  it,  he  sat  back  and  considered  its  significance  with  a 
puzzled  look  in  his  eyes. 

The  trouble  was  that  his  check  to  Hetty,  for  her  expenses  in 
Columbus,  had  never  been  cashed;  and  Wint  could  not  under 
stand  that  at  all. 


CHAPTER  II 

A   FRIENDLY   RIVALRY 

fTT^HIS  matter  of  the  check  that  he  had  given  Hetty  stuck 
I       in  Wint's  mind,  disquieting  him.     This  in  spite  of  the 
•*•     fact  that  he  tried  to  forget  it,  told  himself  it  had  no 
significance,  that  it  meant  nothing  at  all. 

He  gathered  up  the  other  canceled  checks  and  put  them  back 
in  the  bank's  long,  yellow  envelope,  and  stuck  the  envelope  in 
a  drawer  of  his  desk.  Hetty  had  not  yet  cashed  the  check; 
that  was  all.  She  would  cash  it  when  she  needed  the  money. 
He  tried  to  believe  this  was  the  key  to  the  puzzle. 

But  it  was  not  a  satisfactory  key;  and  this  was  proved  by 
the  fact  that  his  thoughts  kept  harking  back  to  the  matter  dur 
ing  the  next  day  or  two.  When  he  gave  Hetty  the  check,  he 
had  expected  her  to  cash  it  before  she  left  town.  In  fact,  his 
first  thought  had  been  to  draw  the  money  himself,  and  give  it 
to  her;  but  this  had  been  slightly  less  convenient  than  to  write 
the  check.  So  he  had  written  the  check,  and  given  it  to  her, 
and  now  Hetty  had  not  cashed  it. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Wint  that  he  saw  no  threat  against 
himself  in  this  circumstance.  Wint  was  never  of  a  suspicious 
turn  of  mind.  He  was  loyal  to  his  friends  and  to  those  who 
seemed  to  be  his  friends;  he  took  them,  and  he  took  the  world 
at  large,  at  face  value.  So  in  this  case,  he  was  not  uneasy  on 
his  own  account,  but  on  Hetty's.  For  Hetty  had  needed  this 
money;  yet  she  had  not  cashed  the  check. 

He  knew  she  needed  the  money.  Her  wage  from  his  mother 
left  no  great  margin  for  saving,  if  a  girl  liked  to  spend  money 
as  well  at  Hetty  did.  She  could  not  have  saved  more  than  a 
few  dollars;  twenty,  or  perhaps  thirty.  .  .  .  Besides,  she  had 
told  him  she  needed  money.  When  he  told  her  she  had  better 
go  away,  she  had  said :  "  A  fat  chance  of  that.  Where  would 

298 


A  FRIENDLY  RIVALRY  299 

I  get  the  money,  anyway?  "     It  was  this  that  had  led  him  to 
write  a  check  for  her. 

She  had  needed  the  money;  she  had  accepted  it.  That  is 
to  say,  she  had  accepted  the  check,  but  had  not  cashed  it.  Not 
yet,  at  least.  Why  not?  What  was  the  explanation? 

His  uneasiness,  all  on  Hetty's  account,  began  to  take  shape. 
He  remembered  the  girl's  sullen  hopelessness,  her  friendless- 
ness.  She  had  been  ready  to  give  up,  to  submit  to  whatever 
misfortunes  might  come  upon  her.  There  had  always  been  a 
defiant,  reckless,  fatalistic  streak  in  Hetty.  And  Wint,  remem 
bering,  was  afraid  it  had  taken  the  ascendant  in  the  girl.  He 
was  afraid. 

He  did  not  put  into  words,  even  in  his  thoughts,  the  truth  of 
this  fear.  But  he  did  write  to  a  college  classmate,  who  was 
working  at  the  time  on  one  of  the  Columbus  papers,  and 
asked  him  to  try  to  locate  Hetty  at  one  of  the  hospitals. 
He  told  the  circumstances.  And  two  or  three  days  later,  the 
man  wrote  to  say  that  there  was  no  such  person  as  Hetty  in 
any  hospital  in  Columbus  under  her  own  name;  and  that  as 
far  as  he  could  learn,  there  was  no  one  approximating  her 
description. 

When  this  letter  came,  it  tended  to  clinch  Wint's  fears.  He 
was  not  yet  convinced  that  Hetty  had  chosen  to  —  do  that  which 
writes  "  Finis  "  as  the  bottom  of  life's  last  page.  But  he  was 
almost  convinced,  almost  ready  to  believe. 

It  made  Wint  distinctly  unhappy.  He  had  an  honest  liking 
and  respect  for  Hetty,  an  old  friendship  for  the  girl. 

He  did  not  tell  either  his  father  or  mother  of  the  matter  of 
the  check ;  nor  did  he  tell  them  what  he  feared  had  come  to  pass. 
There  was  no  need,  he  thought,  of  worrying  them.  There  was 
nothing  that  could  be  done. 

The  long,  lazy  summer  dragged  slowly  past,  and  nothing 
happened.  Which  is  the  way  of  Hardiston.  That  is  to  say, 
nothing  happened  that  was  in  any  way  extraordinary.  The 
Baptist  Sunday  school  held  its  annual  picnic  in  the  G.  A.  R. 
grove,  south  of  town;  and  every  one  went,  Baptist  or  not,  Sun 
day  school  scholar  or  'not.  Everybody  went,  and  took  his  din 
ner.  Fried  chicken,  and  sandwiches,  and  deviled  eggs,  and 


300  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

bananas;  and  there  were  vast  freezers  of  ice  cream.  And  some 
played  baseball,  and  some  idled  in  the  swings,  and  there  were 
the  sports  that  go  with  such  an  occasion.  Cracker-eating,  shoe- 
lacing,  egg-and-spoon  race,  greased  pole,  and  so  on  and  so  on, 
to  the  tune  of  a  great  deal  of  laughter  and  general  good  na 
ture.  And  the  Hardiston  baseball  team  played  a  game  every 
week,  sometimes  away  from  home,  sometimes  on  the  base 
ball  field  down  by  the  creek,  where  the  muddy  waters  over 
flowed  every  spring.  And  Lint  Blood,  the  hard-throwing  left 
fielder  who  was  fully  as  good  as  any  big  leaguer  in  the  country, 
if  he  could  only  get  his  chance,  had  his  regular  season  as  hero 
of  the  town.  And  there  were  a  few  dances,  where  the  men 
appeared  in  white  trousers  and  soft  shirts  and  took  off  their 
coats  to  dance;  and  there  were  hay  rides,  on  moonlight  nights; 
and  Ed  Skinner's  nine-year-old  boy  almost  got  drowned  in 
the  swimming  hole  at  Smith's  Bridge;  and  Jim  Radabaugh  and 
two  or  three  others  went  fishing  down  on  Big  Raccoon,  thirty 
miles  away;  and  the  tennis  court  in  Walter  Roberts's  back 
yard  was  busy  every  fine  afternoon;  and  Ringling  Brothers 
and  Buffalo  Bill  paid  Hardiston  their  regular  summer  visits. 
It  rained  so  hard,  for  three  days  before  Ringling  Brothers  came, 
that  the  big  show  had  to  be  canceled,  which  made  it  hard  for 
every  father  in  town.  And  Sam  O'Brien's  brother  caught  a 
thirty-five-pound  catfish  in  the  river,  and  sent  it  up  to  Sam, 
who  kept  it  alive  in  a  tub  in  his  restaurant  for  two  days,  and 
killed  and  fried  it  for  his  customers  only  when  it  began  to  pine 
away  in  captivity.  And  Ed  Howe's  boy  fell  off  a  home-made 
acting  bar  and  broke  his  arm;  and  the  Welsh  held  their  County 
Eisteddfod  in  a  tent  on  the  old  fair  grounds,  and  John  Mor 
gan  won  the  first  prize  in  the  male  solo  competition.  Hardis 
ton  boys  thought  that  was  rather  a  joke,  because  John  was  the 
only  entry  in  this  particular  event;  and  they  reminded  him  of 
this  fact  for  a  good  many  years  to  come,  in  their  tormenting 
moments.  And  the  hot  days  and  the  warm  days  and  the  wet 
days  came  and  went,  and  the  summer  dragged  away. 

In  September,  Joan  suggested  a  picnic  at  Gallop  Caves,  a 
dozen  miles  from  Hardiston;  and  Wint  liked  the  idea,  so  they 
discussed  who  should  go,  and  how,  and  in  due  time  the  affair 


A  FRIENDLY  RIVALRY  301 

took  place.  Joan  and  Agnes  and  two  or  three  other  girls 
made  the  domestic  arrangements,  with  Wint  and  Dick  Hoover 
and  Jack  Routt  and  one  or  two  besides  to  look  after  the  financial 
end,  and  the  transportation.  In  the  old  days,  they  would  have 
hired  one  of  the  big  barges  from  the  livery  stable,  with  a  long 
seat  running  the  length  of  each  side;  and  they  would  have 
crowded  into  that  and  ridden  the  dozen  jolting  miles,  with  a 
good  deal  of  singing  and  laughing  and  talking  as  they  went; 
but  there  were  automobiles  in  Hardiston  now,  and  no  one 
thought  of  the  barge. 

They  started  early;  that  is  to  say,  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  or  thereabouts.  There  were  three  automobiles  full 
of  them,  with  hampers  and  boxes  and  freezers  full  of  things  to 
eat  in  every  car.  And  they  made  the  trip  at  a  breakneck  and 
break-axle  speed  over  the  rough  road,  and  came  to  the  Caves 
by  nine,  and  unloaded  the  edibles  and  got  buckets  of  water  from 
the  well  behind  the  house  at  the  entrance  to  the  Caves.  The 
farmer  who  lived  in  this  house  had  an  eye  to  business;  and 
a  year  or  two  before  he  had  put  up  a  pavilion  in  the  grove 
by  the  Caves,  and  had  begun  to  charge  admission.  Besides 
the  pavilion,  there  were  swings,  and  there  was  a  seesaw;  and 
there  were  always  the  Caves  themselves,  and  the  winding,  clear- 
watered  little  stream  that  came  down  over  the  rocks  in  a 
feathery  cascade  and  wound  away  among  the  trees. 

This  day,  they  danced  a  little,  in  the  pavilion  —  Joan  had 
brought  a  graphophone  —  and  when  it  grew  too  warm  to  dance, 
some  of  them  went  to  climb  about  on  the  cool,  wet  rocks  of 
the  Caves;  and  some  took  off  shoes  and  stockings,  or  shoes 
and  socks  as  the  case  might  be,  and  waded  in  the  brook;  and 
some  sprawled  on  the  sand  at  the  base  of  the  rocky  wall  and 
called  doodle  bugs.  A  pleasant,  idle  sport.  The  doodle  bug 
is  more  scientifically  known  as  an  ant  lion.  He  digs  himself 
a  hole  in  the  sand  like  an  inverted  cone,  and  hides  himself  in 
the  loose  sand  at  the  bottom  of  the  hole.  The  theory  of  the 
thing  is  that  an  ant  tumbles  in,  slides  down  the  sloping  sides, 
and  falls  a  prey  to  the  ingenious  monster  at  the  bottom.  To 
call  a  doodle  bug,  you  simply  chant  over  and  over: 


302  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  Doodle  up,  doodle  up,  doodle  up.  .  .  ." 

And  at  the  same  time,  you  stir  the  sand  on  the  sides  of  the 
trap  with  a  twig.  Either  the  song  or  the  sliding  sand  causes 
the  bug  to  emerge  from  his  ambush  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit, 
when  you  may  see  him  for  an  instant;  a  misshapen,  powerful 
little  thing.  If  you  happen  to  be  an  ant,  he  looks  to  you  as 
formidable  as  a  behemoth,  bursting  out  of  the  sand  and 
tumbling  it  from  his  shoulders  as  a  mammoth  bursts  out  of  the 
primeval  forest.  If  you  happen  to  be  a  human,  you  laugh  at 
his  awkward  movements,  and  find  another  pit,  and  call  another 
doodle  bug. 

Routt  and  Agnes,  Wint  and  Joan,  all  four  together,  investi 
gated  doodle  bugs  this  day.  They  had  a  good-natured  time  of 
it  till  Jack  Routt  caught  an  ant  and  dropped  it  into  one  of  the 
pits  to  see  the  monster  at  the  bottom  in  action.  The  sight  of 
the  ant's  swift  end  was  not  pleasant  to  Joan;  and  she  looked  at 
Routt  in  a  critical  way.  He  and  Agnes  seemed  to  think  it 
rather  a  joke  on  the  ant.  Wint  and  Joan  moved  away  and  left 
them  there  and  went  clambering  up  among  the  rocks,  and  picked 
wintergreen  and  chewed  it,  and  came  out  at  last  on  the  upper 
level,  on  top  of  the  Caves.  They  looked  down  from  there  and 
shouted  to  the  others  below.  And  when  they  tired  of  that, 
they  sat  down  and  talked  to  each  other  for  a  while.  That 
was  one  pursuit  they  never  tired  of. 

Wint  had  been  meaning  to  ask  Joan  something.  It  con 
cerned  that  letter  which  he  had  received  the  day  after  his  elec 
tion  as  Mayor.  The  letter  had  been  anonymous;  a  friendly, 
loyal,  sympathetic  little  note.  He  had  torn  it  up  angrily, 
as  soon  as  he  read  it,  because  he  was  in  no  mood  for  good 
advice  that  day,  and  the  letter  had  given  good  advice.  He 
could  remember,  even  now,  snatches  of  it.  He  had  wondered 
who  wrote  it;  and  this  wonder  had  revived,  during  the  last 
few  days,  and  he  had  considered  the  matter,  and  asked  a  ques 
tion  or  two. 

Now  he  asked  Joan  whether  she  had  written  it;  and  Joan 
hesitated,  and  flushed  a  little,  and  then  said,  looking  at  him 
bravely:  "Yes,  I  wrote  it,  Wint." 


A  FRIENDLY  RIVALRY  303 

He  said  in  an  embarrassed  way :  "  But  that  was  when  you  had 
told  me  you  would  have  no  more  to  do  with  me." 

She  nodded. 

"  I  tore  it  up,"  he  said. 

"  I  thought  you  would."  She  smiled  a  little.  "  But  I  hoped 
you  —  would  remember  it,  too." 

"  I  do,"  Wint  told  her.  "  You  said  I  had  '  the  finest  chance 
a  man  ever  had  to  retrieve  his  mistakes,'  and  you  told  me  to 
buckle  down." 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  she  agreed. 

Wint  looked  at  her,  and  his  heart  was  pounding  softly. 
"  You  said  there  were  some  who  would  watch  me  —  lovingly," 
he  reminded  her. 

For  a  minute  she  did  not  speak;  then  she  nodded  her  head 
slowly;  and  she  said:  "Yes."  Her  eyes  met  his  honestly. 

Wint  had  been  very  sure,  before  he  asked  her,  that  she  had 
written  the  letter;  he  had  meant  to  remind  her  of  this  word, 
and  if  she  confessed  it,  to  go  on.  But  now  that  he  had  come 
thus  far,  he  found  that  he  could  go  no  farther.  It  was  not 
that  she  forbade  him;  not  that  there  was  any  prohibition  in 
her  eyes.  It  was  something  within  himself  that  restrained  him. 
Something  that  held  his  tongue,  bade  him  not  risk  his  for 
tune  —  lest,  perchance,  he  lose  it. 

Any  one  but  a  blind  man  would  have  seen  there  was  no 
danger  of  his  losing  it;  but  Wint,  in  this  matter,  was  blind  — 
for  the  immemorial  reason.  So  all  the  courage  that  had 
brought  him  thus  far  deserted  him,  and  he  only  said : 

"Oh!" 

That  did  not  seem  to  Joan  to  call  for  any  answer,  so  she 
said  nothing;  and  after  a  moment  Wint  got  hurriedly  to  his 
feet  and  exclaimed: 

"  Well,  I'm  getting  hungry.  Better  be  getting  back,  hadn't 
we?" 

Joan  looked,  perhaps,  a  little  disappointed.  But  she  said 
she  guessed  so;  and  they  made  their  way  down  to  join  the 
others. 

After   every  one  had  eaten  till   there  was  no  more  eat  in 


304  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

them,  there  was  a  general  tendency  to  take  things  easy.  The 
dishes  had  to  be  washed  in  the  brook;  and  the  girls  undertook 
to  do  that.  Dick  Hoover  found  some  horseshoes,  and  started 
a  game  of  quoits.  Wint  would  have  taken  a  hand;  but  Jack 
Routt  drew  him  aside  and  said : 

"  I'd  like  a  little  talk  with  you,  Wint.     Mind?  " 

Wint  was  surprised;  but  he  didn't  say  so.  "All  right,"  he 
agreed.  "  Shoot." 

Routt  offered  him  a  cigar,  and  Wint  took  it,  and  they  walked 
slowly  away  from  the  others,  back  toward  the  Caves.  Routt 
came  to  the  point  without  preliminaries.  "  It's  like  this,  Wint," 
he  said  frankly.  "  A  good  many  people  have  been  telling  me 
I  ought  to  get  into  politics." 

Wint  had  ears  to  hear;  and  he  had  heard  something  of  this. 
But  he  pretended  ignorance,  and  only  said :  "  I  thought  you 
were  in  politics.  Thought  you  were  linked  up  with  Amos." 

"  I  have  been,  in  the  past,"  Routt  agreed.  "  But  the  trouble 
with  that  is,  if  you  tie  up  with  a  big  man,  you  get  only  what 
he  chooses  to  give  you.  I've  been  advised  to  strike  out  for 
myself." 

Wint  said:  "I  think  that's  good  advice.  It  ought  to  help 
your  law  practice,  too." 

"  Matter  of  fact,"  said  Routt.  "  They're  telling  me  I  ought 
to  run  against  you." 

"  Against  me?  "  Wint  seemed  only  mildly  interested. 
"For  Mayor?" 

"  Yes.  On  the  wet  issue.  You  know  my  ideas  on  that.  I'm 
not  on  your  side  of  the  fence  there  at  all." 

"  Well,  I  don't  find  fault  with  any  man's  ideas,  Jack." 

"The  trouble  is  this,"  Routt  explained.  "You  and  I  are 
pretty  good  friends.  Always  have  been.  I  don't  want  to  start 
anything  that  will  spoil  that  friendship." 

Wint  laughed  and  said :  "  Good  Lord,  Jack ;  I  guess  there's 
no  fear  of  that." 

"  By  God,  I  knew  you'd  say  so!  "  Routt  exclaimed.  "'Just  the 
same,  I  was  leary.  You  know  what  kind  of  a  fellow  I  am. 
When  I  go  into  a  thing,  I  go  in  with  both  feet.  If  I  run 
against  you,  Wint,  I'll  give  you  a  fight." 


A  FRIENDLY  RIVALRY  305 

"  Go  to  it.     We'll   show  Hardiston  some  action." 

"  I'll  lam  it  into  you,  Wint." 

"  Well,  I  can  give  as  good  as  you  send,"  Wint  promised 
cheerfully. 

"  The  only  thing  is,"  Routt  explained,  "  I  just  want  an  under 
standing  with  you  first;  that  is,  I  want  you  to  know  there's 
nothing  personal  in  anything  I  may  say.  It's  politics,  Wint; 
and  if  I  go  in,  it  will  be  hot  politics.  If  you'll  promise  to  take 
it  as  that  and  nothing  else." 

Wint  said  easily :  "  I  don't  suppose  you  can  tell  Hardiston 
anything  about  me  that  it  doesn't  already  know." 

Routt  grasped  his  hand.  "  Attaboy,  Wint,"  he  exclaimed. 
"You're  a  good  sport.  By  God,  I  believe  I'll  go  into  it!  " 

"  Come   ahead.     It's   no   private   fight,"   Wint   assured   him. 

"  The  only  thing  is,  I  wanted  to  know  first.  I  want  you  to 
know  I'm  on  the  level  with  you  personally." 

"  Well,  I  should  say  I  know  that,  Jack." 

Routt  thrust  out  his  hand.     "  Shake  on  it,  Wint." 

Wint  laughed.  "You're  dramatic  enough."  But  he  shook 
hands. 

They  rejoined  the  others  after  a  while,  and  Wint  was  glad  of 
it.  He  had  hidden  his  feelings  from  Routt;  but  as  a  matter 
of  fact  he  was  a  good  deal  surprised  and  chagrined  at  Jack's 
news.  He  had  heard  rumors;  but  he  had  not  believed  Routt 
would  come  out  against  him.  It  was  a  thing  he,  Wint,  would 
not  have  done.  ...  It  smacked,  he  felt,  of  disloyalty  to  a 
friend.  He  had  even,  for  a  moment,  a  thought  of  withdrawing 
and  leaving  the  field  free  to  Routt.  But  he  put  it  away.  After 
all,  he  was  first  in  the  fight;  it  was  Routt  who  had  brought 
about  this  situation,  not  he.  He  could  not  well  avoid  the 
issue. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  troubled.  The  world  that  had  seemed 
so  bright  and  fair  a  month  ago  had  a  less  cheerful  aspect  now. 
His  fears  for  Hetty,  his  anxiety  over  her,  were  always  with 
him,  faintly  oppressive.  Now  Routt's  desertion,  his  projected 
opposition.  Try  as  he  would  to  shake  it  off,  Wint  could  not  rid 
himself  of  the  feeling  that  there  were  rough  places  on  the  road 
that  lay  ahead. 


306  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

His  anxiety  over  Hetty  was  relieved  —  though  only  to  take 
a  new  turn  —  in  the  last  week  of  September.  For  Hetty  came 
back  to  Hardiston. 

Wint  met  her  on  the  street  one  day.  He  was  immensely  sur 
prised;  and  he  was  immensely  pleased  to  see  her,  safe  and 
sound.  He  cried:  "Why,  Hetty,  where  did  you  come  from?  " 

She  looked  around  furtively,  as  though  she  would  have 
avoided  him  if  it  had  been  possible  to  do  so.  "  Didn't  you 
expect  me  to  come  back?  "  she  asked  sullenly. 

"Of  course.  But.  .  .  .  How  are  you?  All  right?  Where 
have  you  been?  " 

"  Summering  in  New  England,"  she  said  ironically. 
"Where'd  you  think?" 

"  Mother's  been  wondering  when  you'd  come  back.  She 
needs  you." 

"  She'll  have  to  go  on  needing  me." 

"  Aren't  you  — 

"  I've  got  a  job  in  the  shoe  factory." 

Wint  said :  "  Oh !  "  He  was  disturbed  and  uncertain,  puzzled 
by  Hetty's  atittude.  He  asked:  "Is  the  ...  Did  you  .  .  ." 

"The  baby?  "  said  Hetty  listlessly.  "  Oh,  he  died."  There 
was  dead  agony  in  her  tone,  so  that  Wint  ached  for  her. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  told  her. 

"  That's  all  right.     I  can  stand  it." 

He  asked:  "Did  you  need  any  money?  The  check  I  gave 
you  never  came  through  the  bank." 

"  I  lost  it,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  you  must  have  had  trouble.  You  didn't  have 
enough." 

"  I  went  in  as  a  charity-ward  patient." 

"Columbus?" 

"  No.     Cincinnati.     I  didn't  want  any  one  knowing." 

Wint  smiled  in  a  friendly  way  and  said :  "  I  was  worried 
about  you." 

Hetty  laughed.  "You'd  better  worry  about  yourself.  Do 
you  know  people  are  looking  at  you,  while  you're  talking  to 
me?  It  won't  help  you  any  to  be  seen  with  me." 

Wint  said  "  Pshaw!     You're  morbid,  Hetty." 


A  FRIENDLY  RIVALRY  307 

"  Besides,"  she  told  him.  "  I've  got  to  look  out.  Mind  my 
p's  and  q's.  If  I  want  to  hold  my  job." 

Wint  flushed  uncomfortably.  "Why  ...  All  right,"  he 
said.  "  But  if  there's  ever  anything  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I'll  let  you  know,"  Hetty  said  impatiently,  and  turned 
away. 

He  had  been  afraid  that  she  had  killed  herself;  that  her 
body  was  dead.  He  was  afraid  now,  as  he  watched  her  move 
down  the  street,  that  something  more  important  was  dead  in  the 
girl. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  he  realized  for  the  first  time  that 
a  man  had  been  responsible  for  what  had  come  to  Hetty.  He 
wondered  who  the  man  was;  and  he  thought  it  would  be  satis 
fying  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  the  fellow. 


CHAPTER  III 

POLITICS 

JACK  ROUTT  was  as  good  as  his  word  to  Wint.  Early  in 
October,  he  announced  his  candidacy  for  Mayor;  and 
he  proceeded  to  push  it. 

In  their  talk  at  the  Caves,  he  had  warned  Wint  what  to 
expect.  But  in  spite  of  that  warning,  Wint  had  looked  for  no 
more  than  a  polite  and  friendly  rivalry,  a  congenial  conflict, 
a  good-natured  tussle  between  friends. 

He  was  to  find  that  Routt  had  meant  exactly  what  he  said; 
that  Routt  as  a  political  opponent  and  Routt  as  a  friend  were 
two  very  different  personalities.  On  the  heels  of  his  open  an 
nouncement  that  he  was  a  candidate,  Jack  began  a  canvass  of 
the  town,  and  a  direct  and  virulent  assault  upon  Wint. 

Wint  heard  what  Routt  was  doing  first  through  his  father. 
The  elder  Chase  came  home  to  supper  one  evening  in  a  fuming 
rage;  and  he  said  while  they  were  eating: 

"  Wint,  this  Routt  is  a  fine  friend  of  yours !  " 

Wint  looked  at  his  father  in  some  surprise.  "  Why,  Jack's 
all  right,"  he  declared. 

"All  right?"  Chase  demanded.  "Do  you  know  what  he's 
doing?  " 

"  I  know  he's  out  for  Mayor.  That's  all  right.  I've  no 
string  on  the  job.  I  want  to  be  re-elected,  just  as  a  sort  of  a 
—  testimonial  that  I've  made  good.  And  I  intend  to  be  re- 
elected.  But  at  the  same  time,  any  one  has  a  right  to  run 
against  me." 

"  Nobody  denies  that,"  his  father  exclaimed.  "  But  no  one 
has  a  right  to  hark  back  a  year  for  mud  to  throw  at  you." 

Wint  said :  "  Pshaw,  there's  always  mud-throwing  in  poli 
tics." 

Chase  challenged:  "Do  you  mean  to  say  you  think  Routt 
has  a  right  to  do  as  he  is  doing?  " 

SOS 


POLITICS  309 

"  Well,  just  what  is  he  doing?  "  Wint  asked  good-naturedly. 

"What  is  he  doing?  He's  saying  you're  a  common  drunk 
ard;  that  you  always  have  been;  that  you  are  still,  in  secret." 

Wint  flushed  with  slow  anger.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  if  any 
one  believes  that,  they're  welcome  to." 

"  But  damn  it,  son,  you're  not !  "  Chase  exclaimed ;  and 
there  was  such  a-  fierce  rush  of  pride  in  his  father's  voice  that 
Wint  was  startled,  and  he  was  suddenly  very  happy  about 
nothing;  and  he  said: 

"  I'm  glad  you  know  it,  anyway,  dad." 

"Damn  it!"  Chase  repeated.  "Don't  you  suppose  I  can 
see?  Don't  you  suppose  I  have  a  right  to  be  proud  of  my  own 
son,  when  he  does  something  to  be  proud  of?  Your  mother  and 
I  have  .  .  .  Well,  Wint,  we're  —  we're  a  good  deal  happier 
than  we  were  a  year  ago." 

Wint  said  gently :  "  I'm  only  sorry  I  didn't  make  you  happy 
a  year  ago." 

"  That's  all  right,"  his  father  declared.  "  You  were  a  head 
strong  youngster;  and  I  didn't  know  how  to  control  you.  An 
unruly  colt  takes  careful  handling.  I'm  not  a  —  tactful  man. 
But  I'll  be  damned  if  I  can  see  how  you  can  take  this  from  the 
man  you  call  your  friend." 

Wint  smiled  slowly,  and  he  said :  "  That's  three  times  in  two 
minutes  you've  said  '  damn,'  dad.  Cut  it  out.  Don't  get  pro 
fane  in  your  excitement.  Routt's  all  right,  really.  Don't 
swear  at  him." 

"  Do  you  realize  that  he's  saying  you're  drinking  as  regu 
larly  as  ever,  while  you  pretend  to  keep  this  a  dry  town?  " 

"  Well,  no  one  will  believe  him." 

"  You  can  find  men  to  believe  anything ;  and  there  are  plenty 
in  Hardiston  that  want  to  believe  anything  against  you." 

"  Let  them,"  said  Wint  confidently.  "  There  are  plenty  who 
will  stand  back  of  me." 

"  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  call  names,"  Wint  told  him  cheerfully. 
"I'll  fight  it  out  quietly  and  decently;  and  I'll  win.  That's 
what  I  mean  to  do." 

"  You  act  as  though  you  had  expected  this." 


310  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Jack  came  to  me  and  told  me, 
before  he  told  any  one  else,  that  he  was  going  to  run.  And  he 
warned  me  he  was  going  to  make  it  a  real  fight." 

"A   real   fight?     This   is   assassination!" 

Wint  laughed.  "  You're  taking  it  too  hard.  I  know  it's  just 
because  you're  —  proud  of  me.  Are  you  going  to  back  me 
in  this?  " 

Chase  frowned.  "  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Wint,  I'm  in  a  hard 
position.  I  want  to  back  you  —  of  course.  But  I  can't  stomach 
Caretall.  If  you  weren't  tied  up  with  him." 

"  He's  been  a  pretty  good  friend  to  me.  Can't  you  take  him 
on  that  ground?  " 

"  If  I  tied  up  with  him,  I'd  be  called  a  bootlicker,  and  justly. 
After  what  he  did  to  me,  I  can't  cater  to  him  and  keep  my  self- 
respect." 

"  Pshaw,  dad !  The  world  has  a  short  memory.  That's  all 
forgotten." 

"  I've  not  forgotten." 

"  Every  one  else  has." 

"  I'm  not  talking  about  every  one  else.  I'm  talking  about 
my  own  self-respect." 

They  had  finished  supper;  and  they  got  up  and  went  into  the 
other  room.  Mrs.  Chase  —  she  was  doing  her  own  work  since 
Hetty  had  left  her  —  began  to  clear  away  the  dishes.  In  the 
sitting  room,  Wint  said :  "  I've  been  counting  on  you,  dad." 

Chase  said :  "  I'll  do  what  I  can  —  quietly.  But  I  can  not 
come  out  in  the  open  and  side  with  Amos.  If  he'd  turn  against 
you  .  .  ." 

Wint  laughed.     "  I  might  kick  up  a  row  with  him." 

"  You'll  never  regret  breaking  with  Caretall.  He's  a  crooked 
politician  of  the  worst  type,  without  honor.  A  traitor  to  his  own 
friends.  He'll  be  a  traitor  to  you  when  it  pleases  him." 

His  son  said  quickly:  "  Don't.  Please  don't  talk  against  him 
to  me.  Let's  just  not  talk  about  him.  After  all,  he's  been 
square  to  me." 

Chase  flung  up  his  hand.  "  All  right.  But  how  about 
Routt?  Are  you  going  to  sit  still  and  take  the  mud  he's  throw- 
ing?  " 


POLITICS  311 

"  Jack  will  be  too  busy  to  throw  mud,  pretty  soon,"  Wint 
promised  cheerfully.  "  Mud  is  trimmings.  I'll  bring  him 
down  to  brass  tacks." 

"  You  ought  to  shut  his  lying  — " 

"  Come,  dad,  don't  take  it  so  seriously." 

"  Well,  then,  you  take  it  more  seriously." 

Wint  laughed.     "  All  right.     You  wait  and  see." 

Nevertheless,  he  could  not  deny  to  himself  that  Routt's  move 
troubled  him.  Not  for  its  effect  on  his  candidacy,  but  for  the 
light  in  which  it  showed  Routt  himself.  For  all  his  loyalty, 
Wint  thought  it  was  unworthy.  Thought  Routt  was  hurting 
himself  and  sullying  himself.  He  met  Jack  uptown  that  night, 
and  told  him  so  in  a  friendly  way.  "  Do  as  you  like,"  he  said. 
"  But  I  think  it  hurts  you  more  than  it  does  me,"  he  suggested. 

Routt  laughed,  and  asked :  "  It's  not  getting  under  your  skin, 
is  it?  I  told  you  I'd  give  you  a  run." 

"  Pshaw,  no.  Say  anything  you  like  about  me.  But  it 
doesn't  get  you  any  votes." 

"You'll  know  better  than  that  on  the  eighth  of  November," 
Jack  told  him;  and  Wint  smiled  and  let  it  go  at  that.  After 
all,  it  was  Routt's  own  concern. 

But  if  Wint  took  Routt's  tactics  equably,  Hardiston  did  not. 
Hardiston  folk  love  politics.  The  great  American  game  is  the 
breath  in  their  nostrils.  They  have  an  expert's  appreciation  of 
the  tactical  value  of  this  move  and  that;  and  they  are  keen 
spectators  at  such  a  battle  as  Routt  and  Wint  were  staging. 

Wint  would  have  liked  to  consult  with  Amos  at  this  time; 
but  it  happened  that  Amos  was  out  of  town.  He  had  gone  to 
Columbus  for  a  day  or  two.  In  lieu  of  Amos,  Wint  went  to 
Peter  Gergue,  and  asked  Gergue  how  things  looked  to  him. 
Gergue  fumbled  in  his  back  hair  in  the  thoughtful  way  he  had 
and  said  he  guessed  Routt  was  making  a  lively  fight  of  it, 
anyway. 

"Do  you  think  he's  making  votes?  "  Wint  asked. 

"  We-ell,"  said  Peter,  "  you  can't  always  tell  what  folks  will 
do.  I'd  say  he's  persuading  every  enemy  you've  got  to  vote 
against  you." 


312  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Wint  said:  "They  would,  anyway." 

"  Sure." 

"The  question  is,  is  he  persuading  any  of  my  friends?  " 

"  I'd  say  not." 

"  Then  I  don't  need  to  worry." 

Gergue  spat  at  the  curb.  "  Can't  say.  You  see,  Wint,  there's 
about  sixty  per  cent,  of  this  town  —  or  any  town  —  that's  neither 
enemy  nor  friend.  Just  neutral.  Them's  the  votes  you  got  to 

get." 

"  I  don't  believe  Routt  will  get  many  of  those  votes  by  lies." 

"  Not  if  they're  knowed  to  be  lies." 

"  Every  one  knows  they  are  lies." 

"  It's  a  funny  thing,"  Gergue  ruminated.  "  But  lots  of  folks 
take  a  kind  of  pleasure  out  of  believing  lies  about  other  folks." 

Wint  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  believe  Routt  is  accomplish 
ing  a  thing." 

"We-ell,"  said  Gergue,  "matter  of  fact,  I'm  thinking  you 
may  be  right.  Thing  is,  he's  laying  a  foundation,  like." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean  he's  laying  the  tracks.  He's  doing  a  lot  of  talk 
that  won't  be  believed  much  now;  but  he  might  bring  on  some 
thing  later  along  that  would  make  folks  say:  'Well,  maybe 
that  other  was  true,  too.'  " 

"What  can  he  bring?  "  Wint  challenged. 

"  Has  he  got  anything  on  you?  " 

"Every  one  knows  all  there  is  to  know  about  me,  I  sup 
pose." 

Gergue  scratched  his  head.  "We-ell,  I  dunno,"  he  said. 
"  Anyway,  that's  what  I  was  kind  of  thinking." 

Wint  met  V.  R.  Kite  one  day,  and  the  little  man  spoke  to 
him  so  affably  that  Wint  asked:  "Well,  how  are  things,  Mr. 
Kite?  " 

"  Excellent.     First  class,  young  man." 

"I  suppose  you'll  vote  for  me  for  Mayor?"  Wint  asked, 
grinning  good-naturedly ;  and  Kite  chuckled  and  said  he  guessed 
not. 

"Routt's  more  my  style,"  he  said. 

"  Don't  waste  your  vote  on  a  loser,"  Wint  told  him;  but  Kite 


POLITICS  313 

said  Routt  might  be  a  loser  and  might  not.  He  left  Wint  with 
an  unpleasant  feeling  that  there  had  been  a  secretly  triumphant 
note  in  the  little  old  buzzard's  voice. 

Jim  Radabaugh  met  James  T.  Hollow  at  the  Post  Office  one 
morning,  and  said  cheerfully:  "Well,  James  T.,  how's  it  hap 
pen  you're  not  out  for  Mayor  again?  " 

"  I  try  to  do  what  is  right,"  Hollow  said  earnestly.  "  But  I 
really  don't  know  what  to  do,  Mr.  Marshal.  I  have  thought  of 
coming  out,  but  Congressman  Caretall  gives  me  very  little  en 
couragement." 

"  Don't  encourage  you,  eh  ?  " 

"  No.     In  fact,  I  might  say  he  discouraged  — " 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Radabaugh,  "  maybe  you'd  best  just  lie 
low." 

Hollow  looked  doubtful  and  said  he  didn't  know. 

Thus  all  Hardiston  talked,  each  man  after  his  fashion.  Ed 
Skinner  of  the  Sun  maintained  a  strict  neutrality.  He  was 
closely  allied  with  Wint's  father;  and  the  elder  Chase  held  his 
hand.  B.  B.  Beecham  seldom  let  the  Journal  take  an  active 
part  in  local  politics,  except  on  broad  party  lines.  And  Wint 
—  since  he  had  the  patronage  of  Amos  Caretall  —  was  of  the 
same  party  as  Routt,  who  had  been  Amos's  ally.  He  carried 
the  announcement  cards  of  both  men  and  let  it  go  at  that.  But 
he  went  so  far  as  to  say  to  Wint,  and  to  those  who  dropped  in 
at  the  Journal  office,  that  Routt's  methods  were  not  likely  to  be 
profitable.  "  It  never  pays  to  open  up  old  sores,"  he  said. 
"And  it's  never  a  good  plan  to  say  anything  that  will  unjustly 
hurt  another  man's  feelings.  He  may  be  in  a  position  to  resent 
it,  some  day." 

Sam  O'Brien,  the  restaurant  man,  told  Wint  that  Routt  would 
never  get  his  vote.  "  I  like  nerve,"  he  said,  "  and  you've  got  it. 
You've  made  me  laugh  sometimes,  Wint.  Lord,  I've  thought 
you'd  be  the  death  of  me.  But  you've  took  your  nerve  in  your 
hands.  You've  got  me,  boy.  More  power  to  your  elbow." 

The  first  two  weeks  of  October  slid  swiftly  by.  Wint  heard 
Routt  was  planning  for  a  rally  or  two ;  and  he  began  to  make  his 
own  arrangements  to  a  similar  end.  But  in  mid-October,  word 
came  to  him  which  put  the  mayoralty  race  out  of  his  mind. 


314  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

The  word  came  through  Ote  Runns,  that  hopeless  drunkard 
whose  cheerful  services  were  in  such  demand  by  Hardiston 
housewives  at  rug-beating  time.  Wint  met  Ote  one  evening,  on 
his  way  home,  and  Ote  was  bibulously  cheerful.  He  greeted 
Wint  hilariously;  and  told  him  in  triumphant  tones  that  Hardis 
ton  was  itself  again. 

Wint,  with  a  suspicion  of  what  was  coming,  asked  Ote  what 
he  meant;  and  Ote  chortled: 

"  'S  a  good  oF  town.  Good  oF  wet  town !  Plenny  o'  booze 
now." 

Wint  asked  Ote  where  he  got  it,  but  the  man  put  his  finger 
to  his  nose  and  shook  his  head.  Wint  left  him  and  went  on 
his  way. 

When  he  got  home,  he  telephoned  Radabaugh.  "  They're 
selling  again,  Jim,"  he  said. 

The  marshal  asked:  "Who?  " 

"  Don't  know,"  said  Wint.  "  I  met  Ote  Runns  with  a  load 
aboard.  I  want  you  to  get  after  them  right  away." 

"  I'm  started,  now,"  said  Jim  Radabaugh.     "  I'm  on  my  way." 


CHAPTER  IV 

A   CLOUD   ON   THE   MOON 

WINT  was  rather  pleased  than  otherwise  to  learn  that 
Kite  and  others  of  his  ilk  had  resumed  their  illicit 
traffic  in  Hardiston.     It  gave  him  something  to  do. 
He  had  none  of  the  instincts  of  a  political  campaigner;  he 
could  not  for   the  life   of  him   have  made   a   really    rousing 
speech.     And  it  was  next  to  impossible  for  him  to  ask  a  man 
for  his  vote.     The  old  pride,  the  stubborn  pride  that  had  done 
him  so  much  harm,  was  still  alive  in  Wint;  and  this  pride  made 
him  uncomfortable  when  he  found  himself  asking  favors. 

He  hated  campaigning.  If  there  had  been  no  opposition  for 
him  to  fight,  if  the  way  had  been  made  easy  before  him,  it  is 
not  unlikely  that  he  would  have  quit  the  race.  But  there  was 
opposition,  and  strenuous  opposition.  Jack  Routt  had  kept  his 
word;  he  was  making  a  real  fight  out  of  it.  When  he  encoun 
tered  Wint,  he  was  friendly  —  profusely  so  —  and  affable 
enough;  but  when  he  was  canvassing,  he  made  no  bones  of 
attacking  Wint  unmercifully,  striking  below  the  belt  or  above 
it  as  the  moment  might  inspire  him.  He  had  dragged  up 
Wint's  old  drunken  record  and  aired  it  until  people  were  begin 
ning  to  ask  themselves  if  there  wasn't  something  in  what  he  said, 
after  all. 

Against  this,  up  till  the  middle  of  October,  Wint  had  made  a 
very  poor  fight  indeed.  He  would  not  denounce  Routt  as  Routt 
denounced  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  was  no  particular 
charge  he  could  bring  against  Routt.  Jack  was  no  hypocrite, 
at  least;  he  took  an  honest  and  straightforward  stand.  The 
liquor  issue,  for  example.  He  was  a  drinker,  he  believed 
in  it.  And  he  said  so.  At  the  same  time,  he  added  that  Wint 
was  a  drinker,  but  pretended  not  to  be.  He  said  Wint  was  a 
hypocrite. 

315 


316  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

The  viciousness  of  Routt's  campaign  stunned  Wint  at  first; 
he  was  half  incredulous.  The  thing  didn't  seem  possible.  When 
he  was  forced  to  understand  that  it  was  not  only  possible  but 
true,  he  was  left  at  a  loss.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  his  flounder 
ing  attempts  to  find  some  means  to  advocate  his  cause  that  he 
got  through  Ote  Runns  the  first  word  that  the  lawbreakers 
were  at  work  again. 

He  grasped  at  that  as  though  it  were  an  opportunity.  He 
telephoned  Jim  Radabaugh  that  night;  and  he  sent  for  Jim 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning  and  asked  the  marshal  what  he 
had  discovered.  Radabaugh  shifted  the  knob  in  his  cheek,  and 
spat,  and  said  he  had  discovered  nothing. 

"  Did  you  find  Ote?  "  Wint  asked. 

"  Sure.  I  just  listened,  and  then  went  where  he  was.  He 
was  singing,  some." 

"  Question  him?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  What  did  he  say?     Where  did  he  get  it?  " 

"  He  wouldn't  say,"  Radabaugh  explained. 

Wint  nodded.     "  I  suppose  not.     What  then?  " 

"  We-ell,  I  scouted  around." 

"  Find  out  anything?  " 

"  Skinny  Marsh  had  a  skinful,  too.  And  there  was  a  drunk 
in  the  Weaver  House  when  I  drifted  over  there." 

"  Is  it  Mrs.  Moody  that's  selling?  " 

Radabaugh  shook  his  head.     "  I  guess  not." 

Wint  banged  his  desk.     "Damn  it,  Jim!     Who  is  it,  then?  " 

"  I  couldn't  say." 

"  Well,  I  want  you  to  find  out." 

Radabaugh  spat  and  considered.  "  They's  one  thing,"  he 
suggested  mildly.  "  You  might  not  have  thought  of  it." 

Wint  grinned.  "You  talk  like  B.  B.  Beecham.  What  is  it, 
Jim?  " 

"  I  mean  to  say,"  said  Radabaugh,  "  this  didn't  just  happen. 
What  I  mean  is,  it  didn't  just  happen  to  happen.  It  was 
meant." 

Wint  studied  him.     "  What's  in  your  mind?  " 

"  They'd  have  held  off  till  after  election,  maybe,"  Jim  sug- 


A  CLOUD  ON  THE  MOON  317 

gested.  "  Looks  to  me  like  they're  starting  this  to  hit  the  elec 
tion  somehow.  I  can't  say  just  how.  Don't  know.  But  it 
looks  to  me  it  was  meant." 

"  You  mean  they're  trying  to  discredit  me,  say  I  don't  enforce 
the  laws." 

"  Maybe  that.  Maybe  something  else.  Just  struck  me  it 
was  something." 

Wint  got  up  abruptly.  "  I  don't  give  a  hoot.  This  cam 
paign  business  bores  me,  anyhow.  But  I'm  not  going  to  stand 
for  this.  You  get  busy,  Jim.  If  you  need  help,  say  so.  I'll 
bring  a  man  in  from  outside,  if  necessary.  But  I  want  to  grab 
the  man  that's  selling.  You  understand?  " 

"  It's  your  funeral,"  said  Radabaugh  cheerfully,  shifting  the 
bulge  in  his  cheek.  "  I'll  do  my  do." 

"  Go  to  it,"  Wint  told  him.     "  I'm  leaving  it  to  you." 

But  nothing  happened.  A  week  dragged  past;  a  week  in 
which  it  was  reasonably  clear  that  Wint  was  losing  ground  to 
Routt.  Wint  himself  saw  this  as  quickly  as  any  man,  and  it 
troubled  him.  He  asked  Peter  Gergue  for  advice  —  Amos  was 
still  out  of  town  —  and  Peter  told  him  to  get  up  on  his  hind 
legs  and  rear  and  tear,  but  Wint  shook  his  head.  "  I  can't  do 
that.  It  isn't  in  me.  The  whole  thing  makes  me  sick." 

"You've  naturally  got  to  do  it,"  Gergue  assured  him. 
"Routt's  telling  'em  to  vote  for  him;  and  he's  telling  them  the 
same  thing,  over  and  over,  till  they  know  their  lesson  like  a 
parrot.  That's  advertising,  Wint.  Keep  a-telling  them  the 
same  thing  till  they  know  what  they're  to  do.  You  got  to. 
Might  as  well  come  to  it  first  as  last." 

"  I  can't  ask  a  man  to  vote  for  me." 

"  Why  not?  " 

Wint  grinned,  and  flushed,  and  gave  it  up.  And  Gergue 
told  him  again  that  he  would  have  to  make  a  noise  if  he 
wanted  to  be  heard  in  Hardiston;  and  he  left  Wint  to  think 
it  over. 

B.  B.  Beecham,  a  day  or  two  later,  gave  Wint  the  same  advice, 
but  to  more  purpose.  Wint  had  dropped  in  at  the  Journal 
office  casually  enough,  and  talked  with  two  or  three  others 


318  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

who  were  there  before  him,  till  they  drifted  away  and  left  him 
with  B.  B.  Wint  asked: 

"  Well,  how  do  things  look  to  you,  B.  B.?  " 

B.  B.  looked  doubtful.  "  You're  not  making  a  very  strong 
campaign,"  he  said. 

Wint  nodded.     "  I  know  it.     It  goes  against  the  grain." 

The  editor  was  surprised.  "  Is  that  so  ?  Just  how  do  you 
mean?  " 

"  Oh,  I  hate  to  ask  a  man  to  vote  for  me.  I  hate  to  ask 
favors." 

B.  B.  smiled.  "Who  are  you  going  to  vote  for,  on  the 
eighth?  " 

"Why,  Routt,  of  course.     I  can't  vote  for  myself." 

The  editor  looked  blandly  interested,  and  commented: 
"  Well,  if  that's  the  case,  of  course  you  can't  ask  any  one  else 
to  vote  for  you?  " 

"  Why  not?  "     Wint  was  puzzled. 

"  You  know  yourself  better  than  they  do.  If  you  can't  vote 
for  yourself  — " 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  .  .  .  Why,  you  naturally  vote  for  the  other 
fellow?  " 

"This  isn't  a  class  election  at  college,  you  know,"  B.  B. 
reminded  him.  "  It's  more  serious.  Not  play.  You  want  to 
remember  that.  But  if  you  don't  think  enough  of  yourself  to 
vote  for  yourself.  .  .  ." 

Wint  laughed.  "  All  right,"  he  said.  "  I'll  vote  for  myself. 
You've  persuaded  me." 

B.  B.  nodded.  "  Who  do  you  think  will  make  the  best  mayor; 
you,  or  Routt?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  .  .  ."     Wint  flushed.     "  Why,  I  ..." 

"Routt?" 

"  No,  by  God !  "  Wint  exclaimed  angrily.  "  I've  done  a  good 
job;  and  I'll  do  another.  He'd  open  the  town  up.  Let 
things  go." 

"  Do  you  want  to  be  Mayor?     For  your  own  sake?  " 

"Why,  yes." 

"Like  the  job  so  well?" 


A  CLOUD  ON  THE  MOON  319 

"No,  not  particularly.  But  I  want  —  well,  it  would  show 
that  people  think  I've  made  good." 

"  If  you're  going  to  make  a  better  Mayor  than  Routt,  your 
election  is  best  for  the  town,  isn't  it?  " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  Then  it's  best  for  every  man  in  Hardiston,  isn't  it?  " 

"  In  a  way." 

B.  B.  tilted  back  in  his  chair  and  lifted  his  hand  in  a  gesture 
of  confirmation.  "That's  what  I  was  getting  at.  The  fact  of 
the  matter  is,  when  you  ask  a  man  to  vote  for  you,  you're  not 
asking  him  to  do  you  a  favor.  You're  asking  him  to  do  him 
self  a  favor.  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  thought  of  that." 

Wint  grinned.     "Well,  no." 

"  It's  true?  " 

"  I  guess  it  is." 

B.  B.  leaned  forward.  "  Then  go  out  and  say  so.  Start 
something.  Keep  telling  them  to  elect  you;  tell  them  louder 
and  longer  and  oftener  than  Routt  does,  and  they  will." 

This  was  so  like  what  Gergue  had  said  that  Wint  told  B.  B. 
so;  and  the  editor  nodded  and  said  Gergue  was  a  wise  man. 
"  But  I  can't  do  it,"  Wint  protested.  "  I  don't  know  how.  I'll 
never  make  a  speaker." 

B.  B.  considered  that  for  a  while;  and  then  he  said:  "You 
know,  printed  advertising  was  invented  by  the  first  tongue- 
tied  man." 

"  I  don't  get  it,"  Wint  confessed. 

"  He  had  something  to  sell,  but  he  couldn't  tell  people  about 
it,  so  he  put  an  ad  in  the  papers;  and  after  that,  every  one  got 
the  habit." 

"  You  mean  I  ought  to  advertise?  " 

B.  B.  said  that  was  exactly  what  he  meant.  And  Wirit  was 
interested;  he  asked  some  questions.  He  had  heard  of  adver 
tising  rates  as  things  of  astounding  proportions;  and  so  he 
was  surprised  to  find  that  a  full-page  advertisement  in  the 
Journal  would  only  cost  him  ten  dollars.  He  laughed  and  said 
he  could  stand  half  a  dozen  of  those.  B.  B.  told  him  to  put 
an  advertisement  in  each  Hardiston  paper,  and  let  them  appear 


320  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

in  every  issue  till  the  election.  "  Say  the  same  thing,  over  and 
over,  in  different  ways,"  he  advised.  "Try  it.  You'll  be  sur 
prised." 

In  the  end,  Wint  decided  to  do  just  this.  B.  B.  helped 
him  write  the  advertisements.  In  them,  Wint  recited  what  he 
had  done  and  what  he  meant  to  do,  but  briefly.  In  each  full, 
black- lettered  page,  the  burden  of  his  song  was  just  three  words, 
repeated  over  and  over: 

"Vote  for  Chase;  vote  for  Chase;  vote  for  Chase." 

Amos  came  home  toward  the  end  of  October ;  and  when  Wint 
heard  he  was  in  town,  he  telephoned. and  made  arrangements  to 
see  him  at  his  home  that  night.  When  he  got  there,  Amos  was 
upstairs.  He  called  to  Wint  to  go  into  the  sitting  room  and 
wait,  and  Wint  went  in  there  and  sat  down.  After  a  moment, 
Agnes  came  in  to  restore  a  book  to  its  place  on  the  shelves, 
and  Wint  got  up  and  stood,  talking  with  her.  He  thought  she 
seemed  uneasy,  on  edge.  Her  eyes  went  now  and  then  through 
the  open  door  toward  the  stairs  down  which  Amos  would  come. 
She  fumbled  with  her  hair,  and  a  lock  became  disarranged  and 
fell  down  beside  her  face. 

She  said,  abruptly,  that  there  was  something  in  her  shoe; 
and  she  held  to  his  arm  with  one  hand,  and  stood  on  one  foot, 
and  pulled  off  her  slipper  and  shook  it,  upside  down.  Then 
she  seemed  to  lose  her  balance  and  toppled  toward  Wint;  and 
he  caught  her  in  his  arms.  She  straightened  up  and  pushed 
him  away  with  what  seemed  to  him  unnecessary  force;  and 
then  turned  and  went  swiftly  out  into  the  hall  without  a  word. 
He  looked  after  her,  and  saw  Amos,  halfway  down  the  stairs, 
watching  them  with  a  curiously  grave  countenance;  and  Wint, 
lor  no  reason  in  the  world,  was  confused,  and  felt  his  face 
burning.  He  looked  down  and  saw  Agnes's  slipper  on  the 
floor,  where  she  had  dropped  it;  and  he  slid  it  out  of  sight 
under  the  bookcase  before  Amos  came  into  the  room.  He 
was  sorry  as  soon  as  he  had  done  this;  but  Agnes  had  some 
how  contrived  to  make  him  feel  guilty.  He  could  hardly 
face  Amos  when  the  Congressman  came  into  the  room.  He 


A  CLOUD  ON  THE  MOON  321 

had  a  miserable  feeling  that  everything  was  going  wrong;  all 
the  trifles  in  the  world  seemed  conspiring  to  harass  him. 

But  Amos  seemed  to  have  seen  nothing.  He  was  perfectly 
amiable,  bade  Wint  sit  down,  filled  his  black  pipe,  squinted 
at  Wint  with  his  head  on  one  side  and  asked  how  things  were 
going. 

Wint  said  they  were  going  badly;  and  Amos  smiled. 

"  Why,  now,  that's  too  bad,"  he  declared. 

"  I  wasn't  made  for  a  campaigner,"  Wint  said.  "  I'll  never 
be  able  to  make  a  speech." 

"  You  write  a  good  ad,"  Amos  told  him;  and  Wint  asked: 

"You've  read  them?" 

"  I  guess  everybody's  read  them." 

"  Are  they  all  right?  " 

"First   rate.     They'll   do." 

Wint  said  impatiently:  "  I'm  sick  of  the  whole  thing." 

Amos  studied  him.     "  Routt  getting  under  your  skin?" 

"  No.     He's  playing  it  pretty  strong,  though." 

"  I'll  say  he  is." 

"  Of  course,  it's  just  politics.  He  and  I  are  as  friendly  as 
ever." 

"  Oh,  sure,"  Amos  agreed  indolently.  "  He  told  you  so, 
didn't  he?  " 

"  Yes.     He  came  to  me,  in  the  beginning." 

"  I  heard  so." 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  answer  him  —  the  line  he's  taking," 
Wint  explained.  "  That's  all." 

"  Don't  have  to  answer  him,  do  you?  Don't  have  to  answer 
a  lie." 

Wint  laughed  uneasily.  "  Just  the  same,  he's  stirring  people 
up." 

"  I  never  heard  of  anybody  being  permanently  hurt  by  a 
lie  but  the  liar,"  said  Amos. 

Wint  leaned  forward.  "  I  tell  you,  Amos,  I  want  to  be 
elected.  I've  gone  into  this;  and  I  want  to  win.  Routt  and  I 
are  friendly  enough;  but  he  started  this  fight,  and  I  want  to 
beat  him.  I  want  to  beat  him  tc  a  whisper.  I'd  like  to  see 


322  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

him  skunked.  I  don't  care  if  he  doesn't  get  two  votes  in  Hardis- 
ton.  That's  the  way  I  feel."  His  fierce  enthusiasm  dropped 
away  from  him;  he  said  hopelessly:  "  But  I'm  darned  if  I  know 
how  to  manage  it." 

Amos  nodded  slowly.     "Sick  of  it,  eh?" 

"  Yes." 

The  Congressman  puffed  for  a  while  in  silence,  thinking; 
and  Wint  waited  for  the  other  man  to  speak.  At  last  Amos 
looked  at  him  and  asked  curiously :  "  Wint,  you  dead  set  on 
being  Mayor?  " 

Something  in  his  tone  put  Wint  on  guard.  "  Dead  set? 
Why?  "  he  asked. 

Amos  lifted  a  hand.  "Why,  just  this,'*  he  explained. 
"  I've  been  talking  around,  here  and  there.  Far  as  I  hear, 
they've  heard  about  you  in  Columbus.  The  way  it  strikes  me, 
right  now,  if  you  was  to  run  for  the  House,  say,  you  could 
get  it;  and  you'd  have  a  good  start  up  there.  That's  all." 

Wint  laughed  uneasily.     "  That  can  come  later.     Maybe." 

"  Thing  is,"  said  Amos,  "  if  you  was  to  get  licked  for  Mayor, 
it'd  hurt  you." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  get  licked,"  Wint  exclaimed.  "  I'm  going 
to  win." 

"  Well  —  maybe,"  Amos  agreed.  "  Only  I  just  want  you  to 
know  that  if  you'd  rather  try  for  something  else,  I'd  back  you 
to  the  limit." 

"  You  mean  after  election?     Next  year?  " 

"  I  couldn't  do  much  if  you  was  licked." 

Wint  leaned  toward  him.     "Just  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"Just  what  I  say." 

"Are  you  asking  me  to  withdraw?"  Wint  asked.  His 
heart  was  in  his  mouth.  "  I  know  you  and  Routt  have  always 
worked  together.  Do  you  want  me  to  get  out  and  let  him  have 
it?" 

"  I'm  not  asking  you  to  do  a  thing.  I'm  offering  you  a  good 
excuse  to  —  maybe  —  dodge  a  licking." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  get  licked,"  Wint  insisted.  "  And  if 
there's  a  licking  waiting  for  me  —  by  God,  I  won't  dodge!  " 


A  CLOUD  ON  THE  MOON  323 

Amos  looked  at  him  curiously.  "Well,  that's  all  right.  I 
just  put  the  thing  up  to  you." 

"  But  I  owe  you  enough,"  said  Wint,  "  so  that  if  you  asked 
me  to  quit  —  I'd  do  it." 

"  I'm  not  asking  you." 

"Then,"  Wint  declared,  "I  stick;  and  I  win." 

Amos  moved  a  little  in  his  chair;  and  he  sighed.  "Well," 
he  drawled,  "  I'm  watching  you." 

Wint  left  Amos,  a  little  later;  and  he  walked  home  with  a 
weight  on  his  shoulders.  He  had  counted  on  the  Congressman; 
but  —  this  was  half-hearted  support  at  best  that  Amos  was 
offering.  Wint  was  puzzled,  he  could  not  understand;  and  he 
was  depressed,  and  worried,  and  unhappy.  He  had  an  impulse 
to  get  out,  throw  the  whole  matter  to  one  side,  forget  it  all; 
but  on  the  heels  of  the  thought,  his  jaw  hardened  and  he  shook 
his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  No;  I'll  stick  it  out  to  the  end." 

He  would  have  been  more  concerned,  and  he  would  have  been 
thoroughly  angry,  if  he  could  have  heard  Agnes  Caretall  talk 
to  Amos  when  he  had  left.  She  came  in  to  retrieve  her  lost 
slipper;  and  she  was  fuming  indignantly.  Old  Maria  Hale, 
setting  the  table  for  breakfast  as  she  always  did,  the  last 
thing  at  night,  overheard  a  word  or  two  of  their  talk.  She 
heard  Agnes  exclaim: 

"  I  ckm't  see  how  you  can  be  so  calm,  just  because  you 
elected  him.  But  that  doesn't  give  him  any  right  to  think  he  can 
do  a  thing  like  that  with  me." 

And  she  heard  Amos's  slow,  even  voice  reply: 

"  No ;   it  doesn't  give  him  any  right." 

"  I  should  think  you  could  say  something,"  Agnes  cried. 
"  Your  own  daughter !  " 

Maria  heard  Amos  say  something  about  "  fooling."  And 
Agnes  retorted: 

"  It  wasn't  fooling !     It  was  —  plain  insulting !  " 

"  Well,  we  can't  let  him  do  that,"  Amos  agreed  drawlingly. 
Then  Maria  departed  to  the  kitchen  and  heard  no  more.  She 


324  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

had  paid  no  particular  attention.  The  old  darky  lived  in  a 
world  of  her  own.  A  quiet  world.  A  world  that  was  not  far 
from  coming  to  its  end.  She  was  very  old. 

After  Agnes  left  him  and  went  upstairs  Amos  sat  for  a  long 
time,  very  still,  before  the  fire.  His  eyes  were  weary,  and  his 
calm  face  was  troubled. 

Once  he  lifted  his  glance  from  the  fire  and  saw  a  picture  of 
Agnes  on  the  mantel;  and  he  got  up  and  took  it  in  his  big 
hands.  It  had  been  taken  two  or  three  years  ago;  and  it  was 
very  beautiful.  A  gay,  happy  face;  the  face  of  a  child  with 
out  cares.  A  good  face,  Amos  thought.  An  honest  one. 

He  compared  it  in  his  thoughts  with  Agnes  as  she  was  now; 
and  the  trouble  in  his  countenance  deepened.  After  a  little, 
he  said  to  himself  as  he  had  said  once  before :  "  I  wish  her 
mother  hadn't  Ve  died." 

He  put  the  picture  slowly  back  on  the  mantel,  and  sat  down 
and  once  more  became  motionless,  staring  into  the  fire.  To 
one  watching  him  it  would  have  seemed  in  that  moment  that 
Amos,  too,  was  very  old. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  LOST  ALLY 

CONGRESSMAN  Amos  Caretall  staged,  next  morning  in 
the  Post  Office,  one  of  those  dramatic  incidents  which 
had  checkered  his  career  and  done  a  good  deal  to  make 
him  what  he  was.     These  scenes  were  meat  and  drink  to  Amos. 
He  liked  to  hark  back  to  them  and  chuckle  at  the  memory.     In 
Washington,   last  winter,  for  example,  he  had  told  over  and 
over  the  story  of  his  speech  at  the  rally  of  Winthrop  Chase, 
Senior;     his  pledge  to  vote  for  a  Chase,  and  the  sequel  to  that 
pledge.     The  thing  appealed  to  his  sense  of  humor. 

This  morning  he  met  Wint  in  the  Post  Office  and  snubbed  him. 
And  within  half  an  hour  all  Hardiston  knew  about  it,  and  was 
talking  about  it.  The  way  of  the  thing  was  this. 

Wint  had  met  Jack  Routt  on  the  way  uptown;  and  they 
came  up  Broad  Street  together,  and  down  Main  to  the  Post 
Office.  Wint  was  thoughtful  and  a  little  silent;  Routt  expan 
sively  amiable  in  the  fashion  that  had  become  habitual  with 
him  since  the  campaign  opened.  He  asked  Wint,  jocularly, 
whether  he  was  downhearted,  and  Wint  said  he  was  not. 
Routt  told  him  he  would  be.  "  You'll  be  ready  to  quit  before 
I'm  through  with  you,  old  man,"  he  warned  Wint.  "  You'll  be 
ready  to  crawl  into  your  hole.  Oh,  I'm  laying  for  you." 

"  Go  ahead,"  Wint  told  him  quietly. 

"  All  your  ads  in  the  papers  won't  do  you  a  bit  of  good, 
either.  That's  good  money  wasted.  You  have  to  get  out  and 
talk  to  the  voters,  Wint.  Take  a  tip  from  me.  It's  the  word 
of  mouth  that  does  the  trick." 

Wint  said  if  this  were  so  Routt  would  surely  come  out  on 
top.  "You've  used  word  of  mouth  pretty  freely,"  he  re 
marked. 

"Getting  into  the  quick,  am  I?  "  Routt  chuckled. 

325 


326  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"Why,  no.     I  just  commented  on  the  fact  that  .  .  ." 

Routt  asked  solicitously:  "Look  here.  You're  not  sore,  are 
you?  You  know,  the  understanding  was  that  this  was  to  be  a 
real  fight." 

"  Of  course,"  Wint  agreed.  "  And  I'm  not  sore.  Go  as  far 
as  you  like." 

A  moment  later,  Routt  said :  "  I  heard  Amos  was  going  to 
throw  you  down.  Anything  in  that?  If  he  does,  you  haven't 
got  a  chance." 

"  Nothing  in  it,"  Wint  told  him.  "  I  had  a  talk  with  Amos 
last  night." 

Routt  laughed  and  said  Amos's  promises  didn't  amount  to 
anything.  "Is  he  backing  you;  or  is  he  holding  off?  "  he 
asked.  "  I  haven't  heard  that  he's  doing  much." 

"  You'll  hear  in  due  time,"  Wint  told  him. 

He  thought,  afterward,  that  it  was  a  curious  coincidence  that 
Routt  should  have  said  this  about  Amos  on  this  particular 
morning.  It  was  almost  as  though  Routt  had  really  had  some 
foreknowledge.  But  at  the  time,  the  question  made  no  great 
impression  on  him. 

When  they  turned  into  the  Post  Office,  the  mail  had  not  yet 
been  distributed,  and  the  windows  were  closed.  There  were 
perhaps  a  dozen  men  there,  waiting  before  their  boxes,  talking, 
smoking,  spitting  on  the  floor.  Routt  and  Wint  took  their 
places  among  these  men;  and  Routt  stuck  near  Wint.  There 
was  some  good-natured  chaffing.  And  after  a  little,  Amos 
and  Peter  Gergue  came  in  together.  Every  one  had  a  word  for 
Amos.  It  was  a  minute  or  two  after  he  came  in  the  door  be 
fore  he  worked  back  through  the  groups  to  where  Routt  and 
Wint  stood.  He  looked  at  the  two,  head  on  one  side,  and  Wint 
said: 

"  Good  morning,  Amos." 

Amos  squinted  a  little;  then,  without  replying  to  Wint,  he 
turned  to  Jack  Routt,  at  Wint's  side,  and  thrust  out  his  hand. 
"  Morning,  Routt." 

He  and  Routt  shook  hands,  and  Wint  went  a  little  white 
with  surprise,  still  not  fully  understanding.  Routt  said  cheer 
fully: 


A  LOST  ALLY  327 

"  Back  in  time  to  see  the  election,  Amos." 

Amos  nodded  cordially.  "  And  back  in  time  to  shake  hands 
with  the  next  Mayor,  Routt,"  he  said.  "  You're  making  a  first- 
rate  campaign.  If  you  need  any  help  — " 

Routt  took  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course.  Wint  had  stepped 
back  a  little;  he  was  leaning  his  shoulders  against  the  wall,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  the  world  was  swimming.  "  I'll  surely  call 
on  you,"  Routt  said. 

Amos  turned  toward  his  mail  box  and  unlocked  it.  Gergue 
shook  Routt  by  the  hand.  "  Morning,  Mister  Mayor,"  he  said ; 
and  then,  casually,  to  the  other:  "  H'lo,  Wint." 

Every  one  had  seen;  no  one  had  a  word  to  say.  The  win 
dows  opened  as  sign  that  the  mail  was  all  distributed.  Every 
one  bustled  forward  to  open  their  boxes;  and  they  went  out, 
ripping  open  letters  and  papers,  talking  in  low  voices,  glancing 
sidewise  at  Wint.  Routt  had  gone  out  with  Amos  and  Peter. 
Wint  pulled  himself  together,  got  his  mail,  and  went  out  into 
the  street  by  himself.  Hardiston  seemed  like  a  new  town;  it 
was  changed,  terribly  changed,  by"  a  word  or  two  from  Amos. 

Every  one  seemed  to  know  what  had  happened,  almost  as 
soon  as  it  had  happened.  The  people  who  spoke  to  him  on  his 
way  to  Hoover's  office  —  he  was  planning  a  day  with  the  law 
books  —  seemed  to  Wint  to  be  grinning  maliciously.  He  was 
still  dazed,  unable  to  think  clearly.  When  he  was  settled  in 
the  back  room  with  the  leather-bound  books,  Wint  tried  to 
put  his  mind  on  them;  but  he  could  not.  He  was  groping 
for  understanding.  He  felt  as  a  child  feels,  when  it  has  re 
ceived  a  blow  it  cannot  understand.  He  was  incredulous. 
The  thing  could  not  have  happened;  but  it  had  happened. 
The  ground  was  cut  from  under  his  feet.  Cut  from  under 
his  feet.  He  was  lost,  helpless.  He  had  been  supported 
for  so  long  by  Amos;  he  had  felt  the  Congressman's  sub 
stantial  strength  upholding  him  for  so  many  months  that  it 
had  come  to  seem  to  him  as  an  inevitable  feature  of  his  very 
life.  He  did  not  see  how  he  could  go  on  without  it. 

Yet  in  the  end  he  had  to  believe,  had  to  accept  the  new  con 
dition.  He  remembered  Amos's  attitude,  the  night  before. 
Amos  had  suggested  his  withdrawing  from  the  fight;  the 


328  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Congressman  had  almost  asked  him  to  withdraw.  He  had 
refused;  now  Amos  would  force  him.  Would  beat  him  to 
his  knees.  At  least,  Amos  would  try  to  do  that.  A  slow  an 
ger  began  to  grow  in  Wint;  a  slow  determination  not  to  be 
beaten.  Or  if  he  was  to  be  beaten,  he  would  not  be  beaten  with 
out  a  fight.  In  simple  words,  Wint  got  mad;  and  he  always 
fought  best  when  he  was  mad.  His  resolution  hardened;  a 
certain  fire  of  inspiration  came  to  light  within  him.  He  began 
to  make  plans  to  meet  this  new  contingency.  He  would  go 
to  the  people  of  Hardiston  with  the  facts.  Appeal  to  them. 
Prove  to  them  that  he  deserved  their  good  will;  and  that  he 
deserved  their  votes.  An  hour  after  the  scene  in  the  Post  Office, 
Wint  was  more  determined  to  win  than  he  had  ever  been  before. 
Even  Amos  was  not  invincible.  The  man  could  be  beaten.  Not 
only  in  this  fight,  but  in  others.  Wint  began  to  cast  forward 
into  the  future,  and  plan  what  he  would  do. 

Dick  Hoover  came  in,  after  a  while,  and  gripped  him  by 
the  shoulder.  "  I  say,"  he  exclaimed  excitedly,  "  they  tell  me 
Amos  has  thrown  you  down.  Is  it  true?  " 

Wint  nodded.     "Yes,"  he  said  crisply. 

Hoover  swore.  "The  dirty,  double-crossing  hound.  What 
are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  Lick  him,"  Wint  replied. 

Hoover  looked  doubtful.     "Lick  him?     You  can't,  Wint." 

Wint  said  nothing. 

"Can  you?  "  Dick  Hoover  asked. 

"  I'm  going  to,"  said  Wint. 

Hoover  banged  his  fist  on  the  book  that  lay  open  before 
Wint.  "  By  God,  you'll  find  some  that  are  willing  to  help !  " 

"  I  know  it,"  Wint  agreed. 

"  My  father  and  I  ...     Whatever  we  can  do." 

"Thanks!" 

"  Get  after  him,  Wint,"  Hoover  urged.  "  Show  him  up.  No 
one  has  ever  gone  after  Caretall  the  right  way.  Start  something. 
The  people  are  always  looking  for  fun,  for  a  change.  By  God, 
I  believe  you  can  do  it!  " 

"  I  told  you  I  was  going  to,"  Wint  repeated. 

That  night,  his  father  spoke  to  him  of  the  matter.     The  elder 


A  LOST  ALLY  329 

Chase  had  heard  it  during  the  day,  had  heard  what  Amos  had 
done.  And  there  was  fire  in  his  eye.  He  had  no  sooner  come 
into  the  house,  before  supper,  than  he  called : 

"Oh,  Wint!" 

Wint  was  upstairs,  getting  ready  for  supper.  He  answered: 
"  Hello,  dad." 

"  Coming  down?  " 

"  Right  away." 

"  Well,  hurry." 

Wint  was  surprisingly  cheerful.  The  elation  of  battle  was 
on  him.  He  chuckled  at  the  impatience  in  his  father's  tone; 
but  he  did  make  haste,  and  a  moment  later  joined  the  other 
man  in  the  sitting  room.  The  elder  Chase  was  standing,  stirring 
about,  his  face  hot  and  angry. 

"  Look  here,  Wint,"  he  exclaimed,  without  parley.  "  I  hear 
Amos  Caretall  turned  you  down,  to-day." 

"Yes." 

"  In  the  Post  Office." 

"  Yes,  this  morning." 

"  Told  Routt  he  was  going  to  win." 

"  Just  that,  dad." 

Chase  threw  up  his  hands  furiously.  "  By  God,  Wint,  I  told 
you  he'd  cut  your  throat!  The  dirty  .  .  ." 

Wint  put  his  hand  up  to  his  neck.  "  Cut  my  throat?  "  he 
repeated.  "  I  seem  to  be  all  here." 

"  You  wouldn't  believe  me,  Wint.     But  I  warned  you." 

"  Yes,  you  did." 

"  What  do  you  say  now  to  this  fine  friend  of  yours?  Damn 
the  man!  " 

"  I  say  he's  started  trouble  for  himself." 

"What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean  I'm  going  to  prove  that  when  he  said  Routt  would 
be  elected,  he  was  either  a  fool  or  a  liar." 

Chase  banged  his  hand  on  the  table  beside  him  till  the  lamp 
jumped  in  its  place,  and  the  shade  tilted  to  one  side.  Mrs. 
Chase  came  bustling  in  just  then,  and  straightened  it,  and  pro 
tested  anxiously:  "  I  declare,  Winthrop,  you're  the  hardest  man 
around  the  house.  You  do  disturb  things  so.  I  don't  see  — " 


330  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  Caretall  has  turned  against  Wint,"  Chase  told  her. 

She  nodded  wisely.  "  Well,  didn't  you  always  say  he 
would?  " 

"  Of  course  I  did.  Wint  wouldn't  believe  me.  Now  he's 
done  it." 

"  He  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,"  Mrs.  Chase  declared. 
"  But  I  always  did  think  you  were  wrong,  Wint,  to  be  so 
friendly  with  a  man  who  had  treated  your  father  as  he  did. 
He—" 

"  I  know  you  did,  mother." 

Chase  cried :  "  You  take  it  almighty  calmly,  Wint.  Isn't 
there  any  blood  in  you,  son?  Don't  you  ever  get  mad?  Damn 
it,  the  man  ought  to  be  kicked  out  of  town." 

Wint  laughed  good-naturedly.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know.  He  has 
a  right  to  support  Jack  if  he  wants  to." 

"A  right?  What  have  his  rights  to  do  with  it?  By  God, 
I'd  have  more  respect  for  you  if  you  could  get  good  and 
mad!" 

Wint  chuckled.  "  I'll  try  to  work  up  a  fever  if  you  like.  I 
always  want  your  respect,  dad." 

Chase  said  in  a  softer  tone:  "You  always  have  it,  Wint. 
You've  earned  it.  But  it  makes  my  blood  boil  to  see  Caretall 
do  this  to  you.  To  my  son." 

"It's  terrible,"  Wint  agreed  whimsically;  and  Chase  pro 
tested: 

"  I  believe  you're  laughing  at  me." 

Wint  shook  his  head  anxiously.  "  No.  But  I  don't  see  that 
it  does  any  good  to  get  excited.  I'm  aiming  to  keep  my  head 
—  and  my  job." 

"  You're  going  to  fight?  " 

"Fight?  "  Wint  echoed.  "Why,  dad,  you  won't  be  able  to 
see  me  for  dust." 

"  You've  waked  up  at  last.  You're  not  going  to  sit  back  and 
let  Routt  lie  about  you,  and  let  Amos  trick  you." 

"  I'm  going  to  fight,"  said  Wint.     "  Also  I'm  going  to  win." 

Chase  exclaimed :  "  I  believe  you  can.     If  you  try." 

"  You  know,"  said  Wint,  "  in  a  way  I'm  glad  this  has  hap 
pened." 


A  LOST  ALLY  331 

"Glad?"  Chase  asked.     "For  God's  sake,  why?" 

Wint  touched  his  arm  in  a  comradely  way.  "  Because  now 
you  and  I  can  line  up  together.  Fight  side  by  side.  I'd  rather 
have  you.  with  me  than  Amos." 

Chase  said,  with  a  sudden  humility:  "Amos  might  be  able 
to  help  you  more  than  I  can." 

"  I'd  rather  have  your  personal  vote  than  all  the  votes  Amos 
can  swing." 

"  You'd  have  had  that,  anyway." 

"  Well,  isn't  that  worth  being  crossed  by  Amos?  " 

Chase  said:  "But  don't  fool  yourself,  Wint.  Don't  imagine 
this  is  going  to  be  easy.  Caretall  is  powerful." 

Wint  said  with  a  slow  energy :  "  I've  done  some  thinking, 
dad.  Amos  is  powerful.  But —  I  don't  know  just  how  to 
say  it,  but  what  I  mean  is  this.  I  think  I've  been  a  good  Mayor. 
I've  tried  to  be  a  good  one,  anyway.  And  if  a  fellow  tries 
to  do  the  right  thing,  it  seems  to  me  the  world  has  a  habit  of 
turning  his  way.  I've  done  my  share,  straight  out  and  out. 
And  I'm  going  to  the  voters  on  that  record.  If  there's  any 
thing  in  —  democracy  —  then  I  can  beat  Amos.  He's  cleverer ; 
he's  better  at  tricks  and  contraptions.  But  he  can't  beat  the 
right  thing,  dad.  And  —  I've  a  hunch  that  the  right  is  on  my 
side,  on  our  side,  in  this." 

"  Right  or  wrong,"  Chase  declared,  "  we'll  lick  him  if 
there's  any  way  in  the  world  it  can  be  done."  His  eyes  lighted. 
"  I  believe  I  can  get  Kite  to  line  up  with  you." 

Wint  shook  his  head.     "  No." 

"  I  think  I  can,"  Chase  urged.     "  He  hates  Amos." 

cc  I  don't  want  him,"  said  Wint.     "  This  is  a  clean  fight." 

"  You  want  all  the  help  you  can  get." 

"  All  the  decent  help.  There  are  enough  decent  folk  in  town 
to  put  this  thing  through." 

"  You  can't  be  too  squeamish,  Wint." 

"  I'm  too  squeamish  to  take  help  from  Kite,"  said  Wint. 
"  That's  flat,  dad.  Put  it  out  of  your  head." 

Mrs.  Chase  was  still  doing  her  own  work.  She  called  them 
to  supper,  just  then;  and  while  they  ate,  she  told  them  how 
tired  she  was.  "  I  declare,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  Hetty  would 


332  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

come  back  here.  I  saw  her,  uptown,  yesterday;  and  I  asked 
her  to.  But  she  wouldn't.  Said  she  had  a  better  job.  I  told 
Mrs.  Hullis  last  night  that  the  girl  — " 

"  Hetty  never  cooked  a  better  supper  than  this,"  her  husband 
told  her;  and  the  little  woman  smiled  happily,  and  bridled  like 
a  girl,  and  said: 

"  Now,  Winthrop,  you're  always  telling  me  things  like  that, 
when  you  know  they're  not  true.  I'm  just  a  — " 

Wint  laughed :  "  Quit  apologizing  for  yourself,  mother.  It's 
a  darned  bad  habit.  Tell  people  you're  a  wonder,  and  they'll 
believe  you.  I've  found  that  out.  That's  the  way  I'm  going 
to  be  re-elected." 

"  You  can  tell  them  that,  but  you  have  to  back  it  up,"  his 
father  reminded  him.  "  Brag's  not  so  bad,  if  there's  some 
thing  to  base  it  on." 

"Well,  isn't  there?"  Wint  asked  quietly;  and  his  father's 
eyes  lighted,  and  he  cried: 

"Yes,  son,  by  Heaven,  there  is!  " 

Wint  made  no  move,  during  the  next  day  or  two;  but  he 
laid  his  plans.  He  intended  to  do  a  great  many  things  in  the 
last  week  before  election.  He  would  concentrate  his  effort  in 
those  last  days,  so  that  the  effect  should  not  have  time  to  dis 
appear.  He  talked  with  Dick  Hoover,  and  Dick's  father;  he 
talked  with  others.  And  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  such 
loyal  supporters  of  Amos  as  Sam  O'Brien  and  Ed  Howe  and 
even  James  T.  Hollow  were  inclined  to  support  him.  Sup 
port  him  in  spite  of  Amos.  Sam  told  him  as  much. 

He  met  Sam  at  the  moving-picture  show  that  night;  that  is 
to  say,  he  met  Sam  just  outside.  And  Sain  and  Hetty  Morfee 
were  together.  That  surprised  Wint;  he  had  not  even  known 
that  they  were  friends.  But  it  was  obvious  that  they  were  very 
good  friends  indeed.  When  he  stopped  to  speak  to  them,  Hetty 
looked  at  him  with  an  appealing  defiance.  He  wondered  if 
Sam  knew.  He  did  not  think  it  would  matter.  Sam  was  the 
sort  who  could,  if  he  chose,  forgive. 

He  spoke  to  Sam  of  the  coming  election;  and  Sam  said: 
"  Sure,  I'm  for  you.  Amos's  all  right  in  Congress.  But  he'd 


A  LOST  ALLY  333 

make  a  mighty  poor  Mayor.  I'm  for  you,  Wint,  m'  boy.  You've 
got  nerve;  and  you're  funny,  sometimes.  Lord,  but  I've  thought 
there  was  times  when  I'd  die  laughing  at  you.  But  you're 
there,  Wint.  You  can  have  me." 

He  and  Hetty  went  away  together,  and  Wint  watched  them, 
forgetting  what  Sam  had  said  in  wondering  about  Sam  and 
Hetty. 

He  got  further  comfort  the  next  day  from  a  man  as  close  to 
Amos  as  Peter  Gergue.  Peter  told  him  it  looked  as  though 
Routt  would  win.  "  But  there's  a  pile  that'll  vote  for  you,"  he 
added.  "  It  ain't  hurt  you  much,  Amos  quitting."  He  looked 
all  around  furtively,  and  fumbled  in  his  back  hair,  and  said: 
"  Amos  didn't  do  you  such  a  bad  turn,  even  if  he  meant 
to.  I  might  give  you  a  vote  myself,  Wint.  I  don't  know 
but  I  might." 

Wint  laid  plans  for  rallies  on  Friday  and  Saturday  nights  of 
the  week  before  election.  On  Monday  and  Tuesday  of  that 
week,  he  worked  all  day,  preparing  the  words  he  meant  to  say 
at  those  rallies.  It  was  tough  work;  it  was  hard  for  him  to  put 
his  own  determination  into  words. 

Tuesday  night,  the  first  of  November,  there  came  a  diversion. 
Jim  Radabaugh  telephoned  to  him  at  midnight,  summoning  him 
out  of  bed.  When  Wint  answered  the  'phone,  the  marshal 
asked : 

"  That  you,  Wint?  " 

"Yes." 

"You  r'member  you  told  me  to  get  after  the  bootleggers?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Well,  I've  done  that  little  thing." 

Wint  exclaimed:  "First  rate.  You  mean  you've  arrested 
some  one?  " 

"  I  should  say  I  had." 

"Who?"  Wint  asked. 

"You  know  Lutcher?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  Him,"  said  Radabaugh. 


CHAPTER  VI 

KITE   TAKES   A    HAND 

THAT  Radabaugh  should  have  arrested  Lutcher  was  almost 
as  though  he  had  arrested  Kite  himself;   and  Wint  knew 
it.     It  brought  matters  to  an  issue,  direct  and  unavoid 
able.     Lutcher,  for  all  practical  purposes,  was  Kite.     His  arrest 
meant  an  open  defiance  to  the  head  and  front  of  the  opposition. 
Wint,  characteristically,  leaped  at  the  chance.     He  might  have 
been  more  lenient  with  a  lesser  man. 

He  asked  the  marshal:  "  Where  is  he?  " 

"  Locked  up,"  said  Radabaugh. 

"  In  the  calaboose?  " 

"  Yeah.  Him  and  the  fire  horses  are  all  little  pals  to 
gether." 

"  You've  got  the  evidence?  " 

"  Sure." 

"  No  doubt  about  it?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.     I'll  tell  you  — " 

"That  can  wait  till  morning.     What  does  he  say?  " 

"  Acts  like  he  wasn't  surprised.  Acts  like  he  expected  it. 
Matter  of  fact,  he  pretty  near  invited  me  to  pinch  him." 

Wint  nodded  to  himself.  "That  means  they're  looking  for 
trouble." 

"  I'd  say  so." 

"  Haven't  seen  Kite,  have  you?  " 

"  Hear  he's  out  of  town.     Be  back  Thursday." 

"All  right.  We'll  hold  Lutcher  till  then  and  have  it 
out." 

Wint  heard  a  gulp  that  told  him  Radabaugh  was  shifting 
that  bulge  in  his  cheek.  "  He's  wanted  to  furnish  bail,"  the 
marshal  said. 

"  Nothing  doing,"  Wint  told  him. 

334 


KITE  TAKES  A  HAND  335 

"  We-ell  —  he's  got  a  right  to  want  to." 

"We're  sound  sleepers  here.  You  couldn't  raise  me  with 
the  telephone,"  Wint  suggested. 

"  Lutcher's  all  dressed  up  in  a  yellow  vest  and  everything; 
and  he  didn't  fetch  his  jail  pajamas  with  him." 

"  He  can  sleep  in  the  yellow  vest." 

"  It's  your  funeral,"  Radabaugh  decided  philosophically. 
"  Whatever  you  say." 

"That's  right."  And  Wint  added:  "I'm  glad  you  got  him, 
Jim.  Good  work." 

"  Oh,  he  weren't  so  much  to  get.  I  told  you  he  put  himself 
in  the  way  of  it." 

"  Just  the  same,  you  had  good  nerve." 

"We-ell  — maybe  so." 

Wint  went  back  to  bed;  but  he  didn't  go  to  sleep.  He  was 
tingling  with  the  pleasurable  excitement  of  combat;  and  he 
was  immensely  pleased  at  this  chance  to  give  evidence  of  the 
sincerity  of  his  fight  for  a  clean  Hardiston.  Those  orders  to 
Radabaugh  which  had  become  something  like  a  proverb  in 
Hardiston.  .  .  .  This  was  their  test.  He  meant  that  they 
should  meet  the  test. 

He  could  not  decide  whether  the  incident  would  help  him  or 
hurt  him  at  the  polls;  it  was  impossible  to  tell.  But  —  he  did 
not  care.  Hurt  or  help,  his  course  would  be  the  same.  Un 
changeable.  Lutcher  should  get  the  limit.  Whatever  the  evi 
dence  justified.  The  rest  was  on  the  lap  of  the  gods.  Let  them 
take  care  of  it. 

It  may  have  been  an  hour  or  two  before  he  was  asleep  again ; 
and  he  woke  in  the  morning  a  little  tired  because  of  the  sleep  he 
had  lost.  But  the  cold  tub  revived  him ;  he  was  cheerful  enough 
when  he  came  down  to  breakfast;  and  when  his  father  appeared, 
Wint  told  him  the  news. 

"  Something  doing,  dad,"  he  said. 

Chase  looked  at  him  in  quick  and  surprised  interest;  and 
he  asked:  "What?  What  do  you  mean,  Wint?  " 

"  Did  you  hear  the  telephone  last  night,  about  midnight?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  did,"  said  Mrs.  Chase,     "  I  thought  I  heard  the  bell;  but 


336  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

your  father  was  asleep,  and  I  wasn't  sure.  I  came  to  the  head 
of  the  stairs,  but  you  were  already  down." 

"  I  answered  as  quickly  as  I  could.  The  bell  only  rang  once 
or  twice." 

"  Who  was  it?  "  Chase  asked  quickly. 

"  Radabaugh.     Jim.     The  marshal.     He's  arrested  Lutcher." 

"Lutcher!     What  for?" 

"Bootlegging!  " 

Chase  uttered  an  involuntary  exclamation.  "Lutcher? 
He's  Kite's  right-hand  man." 

"  Absolutely." 

"  Radabaugh  arrested  him?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Has  he  got  a  case?  " 

"  Jim  always  has  a  case,  when  he  makes  an  arrest." 

"  But  Lutcher.  .  .  .  He's  shrewd.  Knows  how  to  cover  his 
tracks." 

"He  didn't  cover  well  enough  this  time."  Wint's  elation 
was  singing  in  his  voice. 

"But  he—" 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Wint,  "  Radabaugh  thinks  Lutcher 
allowed  himself  to  be  caught.  Thinks  he  wanted  to  get 
arrested." 

"  By  God,  that  doesn't  sound  reasonable !  " 

"  He'll  be  sorry." 

"  They've  got  something  up  their  sleeves,  Wint." 

"So  have  I!" 

"You—    What?" 

"  My  arms,"  said  Wint  cheerfully.  "  With  a  fist  on  each  one 
and  a  punch  in  each  fist." 

Chase  looked  uncertain.     "  They'll  try  some  trick." 

Wint  touched  the  other's  arm.  "  Don't  worry.  They've  got 
to  fight  in  the  open,  n'ow.  The  time's  short.  And  I'm  not 
afraid  of  them  in  the  open." 

"  They're  treacherous.     They'll  strike  behind  your  back." 

"  I'm  not  worried." 

But  the  older  man  was  worried.  He  said  little  more;  never 
theless  his  concern  was  plain.  Wint  was  sorry,  a  little  disap- 


KITE  TAKES  A  HAND  337 

pointed.  His  father's  uneasiness  did  not  affect  his  own  con 
fidence.  He  was  as  sure  of  himself  as  before.  But  he  had 
expected  his  father  to  be  as  confident  as  himself,  as  sure.  To 
him,  the  matter  of  Lutcher  simply  offered  an  opportunity 
for  a  telling  blow;  but  it  was  evident  that  to  his  father  the 
incident  was  rather  a  threat  than  an  opportunity. 

He  and  his  father  walked  downtown  together;  they  sepa 
rated  when  Wint  turned  aside  toward  the  fire-engine  house  where 
his  office  was.  The  older  man  gave  him  a  word  of  warning 
there.  "Go  carefully,  Wint,"  he  urged.  "Watch  yourself." 

"  Don't  worry." 

"  Be  sure  of  the  law,  Wint.  Don't  make  a  mistake.  They 
would  jump  on  it." 

"That's  Foster's  job.  And  I'm  no  ...  I've  studied  up  a 
bit." 

"  Take  care." 

"Right,  dad." 

They  separated,  and  Wint  went  on  to  his  office.  Radabaugh 
was  not  there,  but  he  appeared  a  little  later.  "  I've  just  had 
Lutcher  up  to  Sam  O'Brien's  for  breakfast,"  he  explained. 
"  He  wanted  to  go  to  the  hotel ;  but  I  told  him  Sam  had  the 
contract  to  victual  the  city  prisoners." 

Wint  chuckled.     "Where  is  he  now?" 

"  Down  in  the  calaboose." 

"Does  he  still  want  to  furnish  bail?  " 

"  Says  he  does." 

"  Kite  comes  home  to-morrow,  doesn't  he?  " 

"  Yeah." 

"  Well,  we'll  let  Lutcher  out  on  bail  till  then.  I'm  curious 
to  hear  what  Kite  will  have  to  say." 

Radabaugh  shifted  the  plug  in  his  cheek.  "  Think  he'll  have 
anything  to  say?  " 

"  Don't  you?  " 

"  We-ell,  he  might." 

"  Bring  Lutcher  up,  and  we'll  turn  him  loose." 

Lutcher  came.  Wint  chuckled  inwardly  at  sight  of  what 
Radabaugh  had  called  a  yellow  vest.  It  was  an  ornate  affair; 
no  doubt  of  it.  He  was  inclined  to  expect  an  outbreak  from 


338  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Lutcher,  but  the  big,  bald  man  was  cheerfully  amiable.  Wint 
said:  "Sorry  we  had  to  hold  you  in  jail.  The  marshal  tried 
to  get  me,  but  I'm  a  sound  sleeper." 

"  Well,  the  bed  wasn't  soft,"  Lutcher  admitted.  "  But  I  can 
stand  it." 

"  I'm  going  to  hold  you  till  to-morrow,"  Wint  said.  "  Unless 
you  want  to  plead  guilty  and  accept  sentence  now." 

"  Guilty?  No,  sir.  You  can't  pin  anything  on  me,  Wint. 
You  ought  to  know  that." 

"We'll  see,"  Wint  told  him.  "Want  to  stay  in  jail,  or 
furnish  bail?  " 

"  Bail,  of  course.     I  can  get  any  one." 

"  I'd  rather  have  money." 

"Check  any  good?" 

"  I'll  cash  it  before  you  leave  here." 

Lutcher  said  amiably  that  that  was  all  right,  and  asked  the 
amount.  Wint  said  "  Four  hundred."  And  Lutcher  whistled, 
and  protested :  "  That's  pretty  hard." 

"Harder  than  the  bed  in  the  calaboose?  " 

Lutcher  grinned,  and  wrote.  Wint  took  the  check  and  his 
hat  and  left  Lutcher  with  the  marshal.  He  went  to  the  bank, 
drew  the  money,  and  deposited  the  cash  to  the  city's  account. 
"  Just  so  there  can  be  no  question  of  stopping  payment  on  that 
check,"  he  explained. 

Back  at  his  office,  he  told  Lutcher  he  was  free  to  go.  Lutcher, 
contriving  to  look  dapper  and  well-dressed  in  spite  of  his  night, 
took  himself  away.  Then  Wint  turned  to  the  marshal. 

"Now,  Jim,  how  about  it?"  he  asked.  "What's  the  case 
against  him?  " 

Radabaugh  shifted  the  knob  in  his  cheek  to  clear  the  way 
for  speech;  and  he  sat  down,  and  hitched  his  trousers  up,  and 
opened  his  coat  and  put  his  thumbs  in  his  armholes.  "  We-ell," 
he  said,  "  it  was  like  this." 

He  had  been  scouting  around  for  two  weeks  past,  he  said,  ac 
cording  to  Wint's  orders,  without  discovering  anything.  But  the 
afternoon  before,  an  automobile  had  come  into  town  with  some 
boxes  in  the  tonneau  and  a  stranger  driving.  It  made  some 
stir  on  Main  Street;  and  then  it  drove  openly  enough  to 


KITE  TAKES  A  HAND  339 

Lutcher's  place,  on  the  alley.  He  had  seen  the  boxes  carried 
up  Lutcher's  stair. 

"  First  off,"  he  explained,  "  I  figured  it  couldn't  be  what  it 
looked  like.  Didn't  seem  as  if  they'd  be  so  open  about  it. 
Lutcher  had  been  lying  low.  I  figured  they  might  be  aiming 
to  get  me  excited,  just  to  make  a  fool  of  me.  So  I  held  off  a 
spell. 

"  But  the  thing  stuck  in  my  head.  They  might  be  trying  a 
game,  and  they  might  not.  I  decided  to  keep  an  eye  on 
Lutcher's  place,  and  I  did.  All  that  afternoon." 

Wint  said:  "  They  were  brazen,  eh?  " 

"  I'd  say  so,"  Radabaugh  agreed ;  and  he  shifted  his  plug 
and  went  on. 

"  Nothing  happened,  particular,  all  afternoon.  I  et  my  sup 
per;  and  after  it  was  dark,  I  took  another  walk  down  that  way. 
Met  Jack  Routt  coming  out  of  the  alley;  and  he  stopped  me 
and  talked  to  me.  It  was  on  his  breath.  Plain  enough.  He 
must  have  knowed  that;  must  have  meant  me  to  smell  it.  He 
was  so  darned  open,  I  suspicioned  there  was  a  trick.  So  I 
still  held  off. 

"  But  I  took  a  walk  through  the  alley  about  nine  o'clock. 
All  quiet.  A  light  in  Lutcher's  place,  that  was  all.  Some  men 
up  there.  I  wondered. 

"  I  walked  through  again,  after  a  while.  Sounded  like  they 
was  having  a  game.  Finally,  about  a  quarter  past  eleven,  I 
come  along  through,  and  some  one  yelled.  Sounded  boozy.  So 
I  says  to  myself:  '  Jim,  you're  the  goat.  You  got  to  bite,  if 
it's  only  to  see  the  joke.'  So  I  went  up  the  stairs.  Quiet." 

"No  search  warrant?"  Wint  asked. 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Radabaugh  innocently.  "  I  was  just 
dropping  in  for  a  drink,  like  I'd  done  before.  Some  time 
back." 

Wint  grinned.     "  Of  course.     Go  ahead." 

"We-ell,  the  door  wasn't  locked,"  said  Radabaugh.  "So  I 
knew  I  was  meant  to  come  in.  And  I  went  in.  On  in  where 
they  were.  Four  of  them.  Tuttle,  and  Harley,  and  Gates, 
and  this  Lutcher.  I  went  in;  and  Tuttle  throws  a  five-dollar 
bill  to  Lutcher  and  says :  '  Here's  for  that  last  bottle,  Lutch.' 


340  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  Lutcher  took  it.  And  he'd  seen  me  before  he  took  it. 
Then  he  got  up  and  says:  'Hello,  Jim.  Have  a  drink?  ' 

"  So  I  told  him  to  come  along." 

He  stopped;  it  was  evident  that  his  story  was  done.  Wint 
nodded.  "  Well,  that's  plain  enough,"  he  agreed. 

"  It's  my  evidence  against  theirs,"  Radabaugh  reminded  him. 
"  But  that's  the  way  it's  got  to  be." 

"  Your  evidence  is  good  enough  for  me." 

"  Sure.     But  he'll  fight." 

"We  can't  help  that,"  Wint  reminded  him.  "All  we  can 
do  is  —  soak  him."  There  was  a  sudden  heat  in  his  voice; 
and  Radabaugh  eyed  him  curiously  and  asked: 

"  In  earnest,  ain't  you?  " 

"  Absolutely,"  said  Wint. 

"  Well,  it  never  hurt  any,  to  be  in  earnest.     Go  to  it,  boss." 

Hardiston  talked  it  over  that  day,  and  wondered  what  Wint 
would  do.  Most  people  thought  he  would  sentence  Lutcher; 
some  declared  he  would  wait  till  after  election,  for  fear  of 
influencing  the  vote.  Sam  O'Brien  laughed  at  this  view. 
"  Wint  wasn't  ever  afraid  of  anything,"  he  declared.  "  Why 
man,  you  make  me  laugh.  He'll  soak  Lutcher  so  hard 
Lutcher'll  need  to  be  wrung  out  like  a  sponge." 

There  were  others  who  were  loyal  to  Wint;  and  there  were 
some  few  —  not  very  vociferous  except  among  those  of  like 
views  —  who  were  loyal  to  Lutcher.  But  for  the  most  part, 
people  waited.  Waited  for  Kite  to  come  home.  This  was  his 
fight;  that  was  understood.  Lutcher  was  his  man. 

He  came  on  the  early  morning  train  next  day;  and  his  coming 
was  marked.  Lutcher  met  him  at  the  train.  They  came  up 
the  hill  from  the  station  together,  and  went  to  the  Bazaar,  and 
were  alone  there  for  a  little  while.  Routt  joined  them  presently. 
Routt  would  represent  Lutcher  in  court,  he  said.  But  Kite 
laughed  at  that. 

"  It  will  never  come  to  court,  man,"  he  told  Routt.  "  You 
know  that." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,"  Jack  objected. 


KITE  TAKES  A  HAND  341 

"  Then  we'll  smash  that  young  rip,  flat  as  an  egg,"  said  Kite 
harshly,  with  a  gesture  of  his  clenched  fist.  "  But  he'll  crawl, 
I  say." 

Lutcher  got  up.  "  I'm  willing  to  see  that,"  he  declared 
amiably.  "  Come  along  and  stage  the  show." 

So  they  went  down  to  the  fire-engine  house  together,  and 
they  found  the  council  room  where  Wint  held  court  crowded 
with  Hardiston  folk  who  wanted  to  see  what  was  going  to 
happen.  Radabaugh  was  there;  and  he  told  them  Wint  was 
in  his  office,  in  the  rear.  Kite  bade'Routt  and  Lutcher  sit 
down.  "  I  want  to  see  the  Mayor,"  he  told  Radabaugh,  in  a 
peremptory  tone.  "  Take  me  in." 

Radabaugh  shifted  the  bulge  in  his  cheek,  and  told  Kite  to 
stay  where  he  was.  "  I'll  see  if  he  wants  to  see  you,"  he  said, 
and  went  into  Wint's  office.  A  moment  later,  he  appeared  at 
the  door  and  beckoned  to  Kite,  and  there  was  an  instant's  hush 
in  the  big  room  as  every  one  watched  Kite  go  in.  Then  they 
began  to  whisper  and  talk  together;  and  instantly  were  still 
again,  trying  to  hear  what  Wint  and  Kite  were  saying. 
Radabaugh  had  shut  the  door  behind  Kite  and  stood,  with  his 
back  against  it,  indolently  studying  the  crowd. 

They  tried  to  hear;  but  they  did  not  hear  anything  except 
a  murmur  of  voices  now  and  then.  They  could  only  guess  at 
what  had  been  said  from  what  happened  when  Kite  had  been 
with  Wint  five  minutes,  or  perhaps  ten.  At  the  end  of  that 
period,  the  door  opened  so  suddenly  that  Radabaugh  was 
thrown  off  balance.  He  stumbled  to  one  side,  and  Wint  came 
out  and  sat  down  at  his  desk.  Kite  was  on  Wint's  heels;  he 
whispered  to  Wint  fiercely,  but  Wint,  without  heeding  Kite, 
said  to  the  clerk: 

"  Call  Lutcher's  case." 

And  at  that  Kite  looked  at  Wint  for  a  moment  with  a  red 
and  furious  face,  and  then  he  turned  and  bolted  for  the  stairs 
and  was  gone. 

Wint's  countenance  was  steady,  his  lips  were  white.  He  heard 
Radabaugh's  story  of  the  arrest  of  Lutcher;  and  when  it  was 
done,  he  asked  Routt,  who  was  appearing  for  Lutcher,  whether 


342  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

the  man  denied  anything.  Routt  hesitated,  uncertain  what  Kite 
would  wish  him  to  do.  He  whispered  with  Lutcher.  Then  he 
stood  up  and  said: 

"  He  has  decided  to  plead  guilty,  your  Honor." 

Wint  nodded,  consulted  in  a  low  voice  with  Foster,  and  said: 
"  Two  hundred  and  costs." 

That  was  all.  While  Routt  and  Lutcher  arranged  the  pay 
ment  of  the  fine,  the  crowd  began  to  disperse,  a  few  lingering 
in  the  hope  of  some  fresh  sensation.  And  those  who  lingered 
and  those  who  went  their  way  were  agreeing,  one  with  another, 
that  this  matter  was  not  ended. 

"Kite's  got  something  up  his  sleeve,"  Gates  told  Bob  Dyer. 
"  You  wait  and  see." 

And  Dyer  nodded,  and  grinned,  and  said :  "  Yes,  wait  till 
old  V.  R.  takes  a  hand." 

When  every  one  was  gone  except  Radabaugh,  and  Foster, 
and  one  or  two  others,  Wint  got  up  and  went  into  his  office  and 
shut  the  door. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  FEW  WORDS   TO   THE   WISE 

THOSE  minutes  — five  or  ten  — which  Wint  spent  with 
V.   R.   Kite  in  his   office  behind  the   council   chamber, 
before  he  sentenced  Lutcher,  left  Wint  depressed,  shaken 
by   foreboding.     He   was   like   one   beset   in   the   darkness   by 
enemies  he  could  not  see.     He  felt  the  imminence  of  disaster 
without  being  able  to  avert  it.     The  world  was  all  wrong.     Life 
had  turned  her  thumbs  down.     There  could  be  only  destruc 
tion  ahead. 

He  felt  this,  without  being  able  to  put  a  name  to  the  peril 
It  was  intangible;  Kite  had  only  hinted  at  it.  But  the  little 
buzzard  of  a  man  had  been  in  deadly  earnest.  Wint  was  sure 
of  that.  So  ...  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  the 
blow  to  fall;  and  waiting  is  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  do. 
Kite  had  come  into  Wint's  office  that  morning  with  a  smile 
in  his  dry  eyes.  It  was  a  smile  that  had  triumph  in  it;  and 
it  held  also  a  certain  mean  magnanimity  to  a  fallen  foe.  It 
was  as  though  Kite  knew  Wint  was  beaten,  and  expected  him 
to  surrender,  and  was  willing  to  accept  the  surrender  while 
despising  Wint  for  yielding.  Wint  had  expected  the  little 
man  to  come  in  anger,  with  protestations,  and  open  threats, 
and  a  desperate  sort  of  defiance.  He  was  prepared  for  these 
things;  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  confidence  in  Kite's  bear 
ing.  And  his  first  glimpse  of  it  disturbed  him,  made  him 
uneasy. 

Kite  sat  down  without  being  invited ;  he  put  his  hat  on  Wint's 
desk;  and  he  said  in  an  amiably  triumphant  way: 

"Well,  young  man?  " 

He  seemed  to  expect  Wint  to  speak;  but  Wint  had  nothing 
to  say  to  Kite.     He  replied:  "You  wanted  to  speak  to  me?  " 

"  Not  exactly,"  said  Kite.     "  I  wanted  to  hear  what  you  have 


to  say." 

343 


344  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"I?  "  said  Wint.  "  I  have  nothing  to  say,  except  what  I 
shall  say  to  Lutcher  in  court  presently." 

"  Ah,  yes,  Lutcher,"  Kite  murmured.  "  Lutcher,  to  be 
sure."  And  he  nodded  as  though  Lutcher  were  scarce  worth 
considering,  and  kept  .silent,  to  force  Wint  into  speech. 

This  trick  of  keeping  silent,  forcing  the  other  man  to  make 
the  advances,  was  a  favorite  with  Amos  Caretall.  Amos  had 
beaten  V.  R.  Kite  at  the  game  more  than  once;  but  Wint  had 
beaten  Amos.  He  beat  Kite,  now.  The  older  man  was  driven 
to  speak  first.  He  said,  in  a  quick  rush  of  words: 

"You  know  you're  done  for.  Done.  Skinned.  Licked. 
Down.  What  have  you  got  to  say?  " 

Before  a  direct  attack,  Wint  recovered  himself.  He  laughed. 
"  I  should  say  you  were  wide  of  the  mark,  Kite,"  he  said  cheer 
fully.  "  That  is,  if  I  know  what  you're  talking  about.  The 
mayoralty?  " 

"  Of  course.     Your  hide  is  on  the  fence." 

Wint  shook  his  head.  "  I  haven't  felt  it  being  removed ; 
and  they  say  the  process  is  painful.  So  I  would  have  felt  it  go." 

"  Don't  joke,  young  man.     You  know  what  I  mean." 

"  I  know,"  said  Wint,  "  that  I'm  going  to  be  elected  Mayor. 
I  know  Routt  is  licked.  If  that's  what  you  mean." 

Kite  laughed,  a  harsh,  short,  mirthless  laugh.  "What's  the 
use  of  bluffing?  I  tell  you,  I  know." 

Wint  said  a  little  impatiently :  "  You're  talking  in  a  myste 
rious  way,  Kite.  I  don't  see  your  object.  If  you've  no  plain 
words  in  your  system,  we're  wasting  time." 

"  I've  a  plain  word  for  you.  Hardiston  will  have  a  plain 
word  for  you."  There  was  a  deadly  menace  in  the  little  man's 
tone,  and  Wint  felt  it,  and  was  a  little  impressed.  But  he 
managed  a  smile. 

"  I've  a  plain  word  for  Lutcher,  too,"  he  said.  "  You're 
keeping  Lutcher  waiting." 

"  Oh,  Lutcher,"  said  Kite  again.     "  You'll  let  him  go." 

"  Hardly,"  said  Wint;  and  Kite  cried: 

"  I  say  you  will.     Don't  be  a  fool.     I  tell  you  I  know." 

"  You  may  know  some  things,"  said  Wint  slowly.  "  But  you 
are  wrong  about  Lutcher.  He  gets  the  limit." 


A  FEW  WORDS  TO  THE  WISE  345 

Kite  leaned  forward;  and  his  voice  was  almost  kind. 
"  Young  man,"  he  said,  "  you've  good  nerve.  You're  a  good 
fighter.  You're  a  vote  getter,  too,  in  an  awkward  way.  If  I 
didn't  have  the  winning  hand,  I  should  be  worried  about  what 
you  can  do.  But  I  have;  from  the  person  who  knows.  You're 
beaten.  You  might  as  well  accept  it." 

"  If  I'm  beaten,"  said  Wint,  "  I'll  know  it  by  midnight  of 
the  eighth.  Not  by  your  telling." 

Kite  lost  his  temper  for  an  instant;  and  he  cried:  "You 
miserable  little  dog!  With  not  even  the  grace  to  know  you're 
whipped." 

Wint  said  coldly:  "Just  what  are  you  talking  about,  Kite? 
You  wanted  to  see  me.  Well,  here  I  am.  What  have  you  got 
to  say?  I'll  give  you  about  thirty  seconds  more." 

"  Thirty  seconds?  "  Kite  echoed.  "  You'll  give  me  all  the 
time  I  want.  I  tell  you,  you're  done." 

"  What  have  you  got  to  say?  " 

"  Go  out  there,  and  .  .  .  No,  first  write  out  for  me  a  notice 
of  your  withdrawal  from  the  mayoralty  fight.  Then  go  out  there 
and  turn  Lutcher  loose.  If  you  do  these  two  things,  they'll 
save  you,  for  a  while.  And  nothing  else  in  the  world  can 
save  you." 

Wint  —  there  could  be  no  question  of  this  —  was  frightened. 
He  was  afraid  of  the  certainty  in  Kite's  manner,  afraid  of  the 
mystery  behind  the  other's  confidence.  But  it  is  braver  to 
appear  brave  when  you  are  frightened  than  when  there  is  no 
fright  in  you;  and  Wint,  frightened  though  he  might  be,  was 
yet  brave.  He  rose. 

"  Time's  up,  Kite,"  he  said. 

Kite  exclaimed:  "Don't  be  a  fool.  I  don't  want  to  ruin 
you.  Save  yourself,  boy." 

Wint  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out  into  the  other 
room. 

That  was  Thursday  morning,  five  days  before  election.  A  fair, 
fine  day  of  the  sort  you  will  see  in  Hardiston  in  the  fall.  The 
sun  was  warm,  the  air  was  crisp  and  dry.  It  was  a  day  when 
simply  living  was  pleasant;  when  to  draw  breath  was  a  joy. 


346  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Ordinarily,  Wint  would  have  drunk  this  day  to  the  full.  But 
there  was  abroad  in  Hardiston  a  whispered  word;  men  looked 
at  him  curiously  as  he  passed  them.  No  one  seemed  to  know 
exactly  what  was  coming;  yet  they  looked  upon  Wint  as  one 
looks  upon  a  man  about  to  die.  Kite  had  said  nothing.  From 
the  fire-engine  house  he  had  gone  direct  to  his  Bazaar  and 
stayed  there.  One  or  two  of  his  lieutenants  visited  him  there 
during  the  morning. 

Kite  said  nothing;  no  one  had  any  definite  word.  Yet 
Hardiston  was  whispering  its  guesses.  Somehow  the  rumor 
had  gone  abroad  that  Wint  was  done,  that  Kite  was  about  to 
strike.  There  was  a  lively  and  an  eager  anticipation.  It  is 
always  easy  to  anticipate  the  misfortunes  of  others;  and  there 
will  always  be  those  to  rejoice  in  the  imminent  downfall  of 
one  who  has  held  himself  high.  Wint  had  enemies  enough; 
even  some  of  those  whom  he  had  counted  his  friends  looked 
askance  at  him  this  day. 

When  he  went  to  the  Post  Office  for  the  noon  mail,  he  en 
countered  Hetty  on  the  street.  Because  he  was  thoughtful  and 
abstracted,  he  spoke  to  her  curtly.  Hetty  did  not  speak  to  him 
at  all.  She  turned  away  her  head.  But  Wint,  already  passing 
by,  did  not  mark  this. 

He  met  B.  B.  Beecham  in  the  Post  Office,  and  stopped  in  with 
B.  B.  at  the  Journal  office  afterward.  B.  B.  talked  pleasantly 
of  a  number  of  things,  till  Wint  could  be  still  no  longer.  He 
asked  abruptly: 

"  B.  B.,  have  you  heard  anything?  " 

The  editor  looked  surprised.  "How  do  you  mean?"  he 
asked. 

"What's  Kite  up  to?" 

B.  B.  said:  "I  don't  know.     Is  he  up  to  something?  " 

"  He  came  to  me  before  court  this  morning  and  demanded 
that  I  withdraw  from  this  fight  and  let  Lutcher  go." 

"  Demanded  it?  " 

"  Yes." 

"On  what  ground?  " 

"  He  made  some  covert  threat.     He  was  not  specific." 


A  FEW  WORDS  TO  THE  WISE  347 

B.  B.  shook  his  head.     "  I  hadn't  heard." 

"  Oh,  no  one  knows  this,"  Wint  told  him.  "  I  refused,  of 
course,  and  fined  Lutdher.  Now  every  one  in  town  seems  to 
know  that  something  is  going  to  drop  on  me." 

"What  is  there  that  he  can  bring  against  you?  " 

"  Not  a  thing.  Except  the  old  stuff.  What  everybody 
knows." 

B.  B.  nodded.  "  I  should  not  worry,  if  I  were  you,  if  there's 
nothing." 

"  There  isn't  anything,  I  tell  you,"  Wint  exclaimed  im 
patiently. 

"Then  what  can  he  do?" 

Wint  got  up,  a  little  weary.  "  All  right,"  he  said.  "  I 
thought  you  might  have  heard." 

B.  B.  shook  his  head.     "  Not  a  thing." 

Wint  went  to  Sam  O'Brien's  restaurant  for  dinner.  It  was 
a  little  after  his  usual  hour,  and  there  were  only  two  or  three 
others  on  the  stools  before  the  high,  scrubbed  counter.  O'Brien 
waited  on  Wint  himself,  and  Wint  ate  in  silence,  under  the 
other's  sympathetic  eye. 

When  he  paid  for  his  dinner,  O'Brien  asked  heartily: 

"  Well,  Wint,  m'  boy,  how's  tricks?  " 

Wint  looked  up  at  the  other  and  smiled  wearily.  "Rotten, 
Sam,"  he  said. 

O'Brien  protested.  "  Lord,  now,  I'd  not  say  that.  As  fine 
a  day  as  it  is." 

"  I  wasn't  talking  about  the  weather,"  Wint  told  him.  "  It's 
just  ...  I  guess  I'm  in  the  dumps,  Sam.  I've  got  a  hunch. 
I've  got  a  hunch  something's  going  to  drop  on  me  like  a  ton 
of  bricks." 

"  A  hunch  like  that  is  bum  company,"  O'Brien  commented. 
"Where  did  you  get  it,  Wint?  " 

Wint  shook  his  head.     "  I  don't  know." 

"  Lord,  boy !     You  act  like  you'd  lost  your  nerve,  Wint." 

Wint  said :  "  Maybe  I  have."  He  was  terribly  depressed, 
almost  ready  to  drop  out  and  surrender. 

"  You'd  nerve  enough  when  you  soaked  Lutcher,  this  morn- 


348  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

ing,"  Sam  reminded  him.  "  I  was  proud  of  you,  m'  son. 
You've  give  me  many  a  laugh,  Wint,  but  I  was  proud  o'  your 
cool  nerve  this  day." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  worried  about  Lutcher." 

"  I'd  not  be.  Him  nor  his.  The  old  buzzard  of  a  Kite, 
neither." 

Wint  said :  "  I  don't  know.  Kite's  got  something  up  his 
sleeve." 

"  That's  as  much  as  to  say  that  he's  tricky.  It's  these  magi 
cians  that  has  things  up  their  sleeves.  Full  of  tricks.  You 
stick  to  the  middle  of  the  road,  Wint,  and  never  mind  their 
tricks.  They'll  trick  their  own  selves." 

Wint  shook  his  head.  "That's  all  right.  But  what  can  I 
do?" 

"Do?"  Sam  echoed.  "Why,  fight  'em  like  that  dog  of 
yours  fit  Mrs.  Moody's  Jim."  He  nodded  to  Muldoon,  curled 
as  always  near  Wint's  feet;  and  Wint  dropped  his  hand  to 
Muldoon's  grizzled  head.  He  was  apt  to  turn  to  Muldoon  in 
trouble.  The  dog  was  his  shadow,  always  with  him;  but  it 
was  when  he  was  troubled  that  Wint  gave  most  heed  to  the 
terrier.  At  Wint's  caress,  Muldoon  rolled  his  eyes  up  without 
moving  his  head;  and  Sam  said: 

"Look  at  him  grin;  the  nervy  pup.  He's  telling  you  to 
take  a  brace,  m'  son.  You  can't  scare  the  dog." 

"  I'm  not  scared." 

"You  act  damn  like  it,"  said  Sam  frankly;  and  Wint  pro 
tested  : 

"  It's  only  that  I'm  sick  of  it  all.  Sick  of  the  fight,  and 
the  mud-throwing.  And  getting  no  thanks." 

"  Hell's  bells,"  Sam  exclaimed.     "  You  talk  like  a  woman!  " 

Wint  looked  at  him  curiously.  "What's  Kite  up  to,  Sam? 
Have  you  heard?  " 

"  Heard  some  rats  say  he  would  rip  you  up.  And  I  told  them 
you'd  be  doing  some  ripping,  about  that  time.  You're  not 
going  to  make  me  out  a  liar,  Wint.  Are  you  now?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  I'll  fight." 

He  left  the  restaurant  and  walked  down  to  Hoover's  office 
and  secluded  himself  in  the  back  room;  but  his  studies  could 


A  FEW  WORDS  TO  THE  WISE  349 

not  hold  him.  There  was  a  curiously  passive  despair  upon 
the  boy.  He  could  not  shake  it  off.  The  whole  thing  seemed 
so  little  worth  while.  If  there  had  been  a  chance  to  fight.  .  .  . 
But  the  peril  was  intangible.  He  could  not  come  to  grips  with 
it.  He  could  not  even  be  sure  there  was  peril.  He  could  not 
be  sure  of  anything.  Not  even  of  himself.  He  asked  him 
self  despairingly:  "Are  you  going  to  be  a  quitter,  Wint?  " 
And  then  thought  hopelessly:  "Oh,  what's  the  use?" 

In  mid-afternoon,  Dick  Hoover  looked  in  and  said  Gergue 
wanted  to  see  Wint.  Wint  was  surprised.  "  What  does  he 
want?  "  he  asked.  "  Gergue?  "  He  got  up  and  went  to  the 
door  and  saw  Peter  waiting;  and  he  called:  "Come  along  in 
here." 

Gergue  came  at  the  invitation.  His  hat  was  off;  he  was 
fumbling  in  the  tangle  of  hair  at  the  back  of  his  neck.  There 
was  a  curiously  furtive  uncertainty  about  the  man.  Wint  thrust 
a  chair  toward  Peter  with  his  foot,  and  said:  "Sit  down." 
When  Gergue  was  seated,  and  slicing  a  fill  for  his  pipe,  Wint 
asked : 

"What's  on  your  mind?" 

Gergue  looked  at  him  sidewise,  stuffing  the  crumbled  tobacco 
into  the  black  bowl.  And  he  asked:  "Wint,  where  do  you  figure 
I  stand?  " 

Wint  was  surprised.  "  You  mean  —  in  this  business  between 
Routt  and  me?  " 

Gergue  nodded.     "Yeah." 

"Why,  with  Routt,  I  suppose,"  Wint  told  him. 

"  Why  d'  you  figure  that?  " 

"  You're  tied  up  with  Amos." 

Gergue  scratched  a  match.  "Wint,"  he  said,  "Amos  is  a 
fine  man.  He  does  things  his  own  way;  but  in  the  end,  he 
pretty  near  always  turns  out  pretty  near  right." 

"  Well,  that's  his  record,"  Wint  agreed.  "  He's  usually  on 
the  winning  side." 

"  Don't  let  that  get  away  from  you,"  said  Gergue.  "  Don't 
you  forget  that,  Wint!  " 

Wint  laughed  harshly;  and  he  said:  "I'm  not  likely  to.  I 
counted  on  him  in  this,  you  know." 


350  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Gergue  leaned  toward  him.  "  Thing  is,  Wint,  I'm  wonder- 
in'  what  you'd  think  if  I  told  you  something?  " 

"  That  would  depend  on  what  you  told  me." 

"  Something  for  your  own  good.     Help  you  some." 

Wint  said,  amiably  enough:  "I  want  to  win  this  fight,  Peter. 
But  —  after  Amos's  stand  —  I  don't  particularly  want  any  help 
from  him.  I'd  mistrust  it." 

"  Say  this  come  from  me,  personal." 

"  You're  linked  with  Amos." 

Gergue  nodded  resignedly.  "  Have  it  so,"  he  agreed. 
"  Anyway,  I'm  going  to  tell  you." 

Wint  said:  "  All  right.     What  do  you  want  to  tell?  " 

Gergue  hesitated  for  a  while,  choosing  his  words.  At  last 
he  asked:  "  You  wondering  what  Kite  aims  to  do  to  trim  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Got  any  ideas?  " 

"  No." 

Gergue  looked  at  him  shrewdly.  "  Know  any  way  he  could 
hit  at  you?  " 

"  No.     Not  with  the  truth." 

Gergue  hesitated ;  then  he  asked  slowly :  "  Know  any  way  he 
could  hit  at  you  with  Hetty?  " 

"  Hetty?  "  Wint  echoed.     "  Hetty  Morfee?  " 

"  Yes.     Her." 

Wint  was  stupefied  with  surprise.     "  Good  Lord,  no !  " 

"  She  got  any  reason  to  be  against  you?  " 

"  No.     I  —     She's  friendly,  I  think.     Ought  to  be." 

Gergue  puffed  at  his  pipe.  Then  he  got  up.  "  Wint,"  he 
said,  "  take  it  for  what  it's  worth.  I  hear  he's  going  to  hit 
you  with  her." 

Wint  exclaimed  angrily:  "You're  crazy,  Peter.  Or  you're 
.  .  .  Look  here,  did  Amos  send  you?  " 

"  No." 

"  Is  this  some  damned  trick  of  his?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  what  in  God's  name  are  you  talking  about?  " 

Gergue  said  thoughtfully:  "I've  said  all  I  know.  Think  it 
over,  Wint." 


A  FEW  WORDS  TO  THE  WISE  351 

He  went  out,  with  a  surprising  quickness,  and  was  gone  before 
Wint  could  frame  other  questions.  The  young  man  was  left 
to  consider  the  thing. 

When  Wint  went  home  for  supper,  he  was  still  mystified; 
but  he  was  beginning  to  grow  angry.  Angry  at  the  mere  sug 
gestion  that  lay  behind  Peter's  words.  Angry  at  Gergue  for 
saying  them.  And  this  anger  was  a  more  hopeful  sign  than 
his  depression  of  the  morning  had  been.  He  was  fiercely 
resentful  at  Hardiston,  at  the  whole  world. 

He  met  Joan,  halfway  home.  That  is  to  say,  he  overtook 
her  on  her  way,  and  they  walked  home  together.  He  was  so 
absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  that  he  did  not  see  there  was 
something  troubling  the  girl  until  she  spoke  of  it.  She  said: 
"  Wint,  I  met  Agnes  Caretall  uptown.5' 

He  nodded,  scarce  hearing;  and  Joan  said:  "She's  a  good 
deal  of  a  gossip,  you  know." 

There  was  something  in  her  tone  which  caught  his  attention; 
and  he  looked  at  her  sharply  and  asked:  "What  do  you  mean? 
What  did  she  say?  " 

"  She  said  Mr.  Kite  was  going  to  ruin  you,"  Joan  told  him. 

Wint  laughed  shortly.  "Well,  that's  no  secret.  At  least 
it's  no  'secret  that  he  wants  to." 

"  She  said  he  was  going  to,"  Joan  insisted. 

Wint  asked :  "  How,  since  she  knew  so  much,  did  she  know 
how?  " 

Joan  touched  his  arm.     "  Don't  be  angry,  Wint." 

But  Wint  was  angry,  even  with  Joan.  He  exclaimed  harshly, 
after  the  fashion  of  angry  men :  "  I'm  not  mad.  What  did  she 
say?  " 

Joan  told  him.  "  She  said  they  were  going  to  link  you  up 
with  Hetty." 

Wint  exclaimed:  "Lord!  You  too?  I'm  sick  of  that  tale. 
Hetty!  " 

Joan  begged:  "But  there  isn't  anything,  is  there?  " 

Wint  faced  her  hotly.  "  If  you  don't  know  without  being 
told  .  .  .  Can't  I  even  count  on  you,  Joan?  " 

"  I  only  asked." 

They  were  at  her  gate,   and  Wint  lifted  his  hat  abruptly. 


352  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  Think  what  you  like,"  he  told  her  sharply.     "  Good  after 
noon!  " 

He  left  her  there;  left  her,  and  Joan  looked  after  him  with 
troubled  sympathy  in  her  eyes,  and  something  more.  There  was 
a  mist  of  tears  in  them  when  she  went  on  toward  the  house. 

While  they  were  at  supper  that  night,  the  telephone  rang,  and 
Wint's  father  answered.  After  a  moment  he  came  back  into  the 
dining  room.  "  Wint,"  he  said,  "  it's  Kite." 

"Kite?  "  Wint  demanded,  pushing  back  his  chair.  "What 
does  he  want?  " 

"  He  wants  to  see  you  —  and  me.  He  says  he'll  be  out  here 
at  eight.  He  wants  us  to  be  here." 

Wint's  face  turned  black  with  anger;  then  he  threw  up  one 
hand.  "All  right,"  he  cried,  "  tell  Kite  we'll  be  here." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

POOR   HETTY  AGAIN 

WHEN  Chase  came  back  from  the  table  after  telling 
Kite  that  they  would  expect  him  at  the  appointed 
time,  Wint  asked: 

"  Did  he  say  what  he  wanted  ?  " 

Mrs.  Chase  exclaimed :  "  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  have  let 
him  come,  Winthrop.  I  don't  want  that  man  in  my  house. 
He-5' 

Chase  answered  Wint.  "  No.  Just  said  he  wanted  to  see 
us."  He  was  troubled;  and  he  showed  it.  "What  do  you 
think  he  wants,  Wint?  Something  about  Lutcher?  " 

Wint  shook  his  head.  "  I  think  he's  going  to  hit  at  me. 
Somehow.  There's  been  a  rumor  around  town  all  day.  They 
say  he  has  something." 

Chase  asked  quickly:  "Has  he?  Has  he  got  anything  on 
you,  Wint?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  There's  nothing  he  could  get.  Nothing 
to  get."  He  looked  at  his  father  in  a  quick,  appealing  way. 
"  Dad,  I  wish  you'd  just  remember  that,  whatever  happens. 
You  know  the  worst  there  is  to  know  about  me.  Anything 
else  is  just  flat  lie." 

His  father  nodded  abstractedly.  "  Of  course.  But  Kite  is 
confoundedly  clever.  Now  I  wonder  what  he's — " 

"  I  always  told  you,  Wint,  that  you  hadn't  any  business  in 
politics,"  Mrs.  Chase  exclaimed.  "  I  don't  think  it's  decent,  the 
way  men  talk  about  each  other.  Why,  Mrs.  Hullis  told  me  that 
Jack  Routt  is  going  around  saying  the  most  terrible  things 
about  you.  That  you  — " 

"  I  know,  mother.  That's  Jack's  idea  of  a  campaign.  We'll 
show  him  his  mistake  next  Tuesday." 

353 


354  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  But  he  says  that  you  — " 

"  Now,  mother,"  her  husband  interrupted,  "  never  mind. 
Wint,  did  you  hear  anything  definite  about  Kite?  What  he's 
planning.  .  .  ." 

Wint  hesitated;  he  had  heard  something  definite.  Definite 
but  incredible.  That  which  he  had  heard  could  not  possibly 
be  true;  he  could  not  believe  it.  To  tell  his  father  would  only 
disturb  the  older  man;  he  could  not  be  sure  how  Chase  would 
react  to  the  report.  He  held  his  tongue.  "  No,  nothing 
definite,"  he  said. 

"It  he's  coming  to  see  you  about  it,  he  must  have  some 
thing." 

Wint  got  up  from  the  table.  "Well,"  he  said  abruptly, 
"  we'll  soon  know.  It's  after  seven,  now." 

They  went  into  the  sitting  room  to  wait;  and  the  waiting 
was  hard.  Wint  tried  to  read  the  daily;  his  father  took  a  book 
from  the  shelves.  But  Wint's  eyes  strayed  from  the  printed 
columns.  He  was  in  a  curiously  numb  state  of  mind.  This 
was  part  hopelessness,  part  the  sheer  suspense  of  waiting.  Wint 
was  one  of  those  men  who  in  their  moments  of  greatest  passion 
and  excitement  become  outwardly  serene  and  calm.  Their  own 
emotions  put  a  physical  inhibition  on  them  so  that  they  are 
still,  and  do  not  speak.  Once  or  twice  Chase  glanced  to 
ward  his  son  and  saw  Wint  motionless,  apparently  absorbed, 
apparently  quite  at  ease.  But  actually  Wint  was  stirring  to 
the  throbbing  of  his  heart,  held  still  by  the  very  fury  of  his 
own  dread  and  anger  and  suspense. 

At  fifteen  minutes  before  eight,  some  one  knocked  on  the 
front  door.  Wint  said :  "  There  he  is,"  and  got  up  and  went 
to  the  door;  but  when  he  opened  it,  Jack  Routt  stood  there. 
Wint  was  surprised;  he  said  slowly: 

"Oh,  you,  Jack?" 

Routt  nodded,  a  little  ill  at  ease.     "  Is  Kite  here?  "  he  asked. 

"No.     He's  coming." 

Routt  smiled  ingratiatingly.  "  I  don't  know  what  he  wants. 
He  told  me  to  meet  him  here  about  eight,  to  have  a  talk  with 
you." 

"Told  you  to?" 


POOR  HETTY  AGAIN  355 

"  Yes.  I  asked  him  what  he  meant ;  and  he  said  to  wait.  I 
supposed  he  had  made  arrangements  with  you." 

Wint  said  dully:  "Yes,  he  has.  He's  coming."  And  after 
a  moment,  he  added :  "  You  might  as  well  come  in." 

Routt  grinned.     "You're  damned  cordial,"  he  remarked. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  Wint  assured  him  abstractedly.  He 
was  thinking  so  swiftly  that  he  seemed  stupefied.  His  father 
came  into  the  hall,  and  Wint  said:  "Here's  Jack  Routt.  Kite 
told  him  to  come." 

Chase  looked  at  Routt  uncertainly;  and  Routt  said:  "  I'll  get 
out  if  you  say  so." 

Wint  shook  his  head.     "  No.     Sit  down.     Go  on  in." 

They  went  into  the  sitting  room;  but  before  they  could  sit 
down,  some  one  else  knocked.  This  time  it  was  B.  B.  Beecham. 
He  stood  in  the  door  when  Wint  opened  it,  and  smiled,  and  said : 

"  I'm  not  sure  I  understand,  Wint.  V.  R.  Kite  telephoned 
me  there  was  to  be  some  sort  of  a  conference  here,  about  a 
matter  for  the  good  of  Hardiston.  I  thought  it  curious  that  the 
word  should  come  from  him." 

Wint  laughed  harshly.  "  All  right,  come  in,"  he  said.  "  I 
don't  know  any  more  about  it  than  you  do.  I  suppose  Kite 
thought  it  would  be  cheaper  to  use  our  house  than  to  hire  a 
hall." 

B.  B.  said  simply:  "  I  don't  want  to  inconvenience  you." 

"  Come  in,"  Wint  repeated.  "  I'm  up  in  the  air,  that's  all. 
Routt's  here  already.  Kite  will  be  along,  I  suppose." 

"  Routt?  "  B.  B.  echoed,  in  surprise. 

"Yes;  in  there." 

Wint  and  B.  B.  went  into  the  sitting  room  where  Chase  and 
Routt  were  talking  awkwardly.  After  the  first  greetings,  no 
one  could  think  of  anything  more  to  say.  B.  B.  broke  the 
silence.  "  I  saw  a  robin  to-day,"  he  said.  "  They  stay  here, 
sometimes,  right  through  the  winter." 

Birds  and  flowers  were  B.  B.'s  hobbies;  he  knew  them  all. 
And  other  people  recognized  this  interest  in  him,  and  shared  it. 
They  liked  his  enthusiasm.  Chase  said:  "Is  that  so?  I  had 
no  idea  they  stayed.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  I  ever  saw  one 


356  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"They  live  in  the  sheltered  places,"  said  B.  B.  "You'll 
find  them  in  the  woods,  and  the  brushy  hollows,  and  around 
houses  where  there  is  a  good  deal  of  shrubbery.  Especially  if 
the  people  put  out  a  lump  of  suet  for  them  to  feed  on." 

"  Why,  everybody  ought  to  do  that,"  Chase  declared,  with 
a  quick  interest.  "  You  ought  to  tell  them  to,  in  the  Journal, 
B.  B." 

B.  B.  smiled  and  said  he  was  telling  people  just  this,  every 
week.  He  spoke  of  other  birds.  Chase  seemed  interested. 
Routt  and  Wint  said  nothing.  Routt  seemed  uncomfortable; 
and  that  was  a  strange  thing  to  see  in  this  assured  young  man. 
Wint's  eyes  were  lowered;  he  was  thinking.  Lost  in  a  maze  of 
conjectures.  Kite  would  be  coming,  any  minute  now. 

B.  B.  was  still  talking  about  birds  when  Kite  came.  Wint 
heard  footsteps  on  the  walk  in  front  of  the  house,  heard  them 
come  up  the  steps.  There  were  several  men.  Not  Kite  alone. 
The  sounds  told  him  that.  He  waited,  sitting  still,  till  they 
knocked  on  the  front  door.  Then  he  went  out  into  the  hall 
and  opened  the  door  and  saw  Kite  standing  there,  his  dry  little 
face  triumphant,  malignantly  rejoicing. 

Wint  looked  at  Kite  steadily  for  a  moment;  and  then  he  lifted 
his  eyes  and  saw,  behind  Kite,  Amos  Caretall.  And  at  one  side, 
Ed  Skinner  of  the  Sun.  He  had  thought  there  were  others.  But 
he  saw  no  one  else. 

Kite  stepped  inside  the  door.  Skinner  and  Amos  stood  still 
till  Wint  asked:  "Well  — what  is  it?" 

Kite  said  then :  "  Come  in,  Amos.     You  too,  Ed." 

Amos,  his  big  head  on  one  side,  his  eyes  squinting  in  a 
friendly  way,  drawled  a  question:  "  How  about  it,  Wint?  Kite 
says  he's  got  something  to  talk  over.  Asked  me  to  come  along. 
But  I  don't  allow  he's  got  any  right  to  ask  me  into  your  house." 

"  Come  in,  Amos.  Both  of  you,"  Wint  said ;  and  Kite 
repeated : 

"  Yes,  come  in.  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  This  young 
man  isn't  likely  to  object." 

"All  right,  Wint?"  Amos  asked  again;  and  Wint  nodded, 
and  Amos  lumbered  into  the  hall.  Then  Chase  came  to  the 
door  that  led  from  the  sitting  room  into  the  hall;  and  at  sight 


POOR  HETTY  AGAIN  357 

of  Amos,  he  stopped  very  still,  with  a  white  face.  Wint  crossed 
to  his  father's  side  and  told  him  quietly: 

"  It's  all  right.     Kite  brought  him.     It's  all  right,  dad." 

Chase  exclaimed:  "How  do  I  know  it's  all  right?  I  don't 
understand  all  this  mystery.  Kite,  by  what  right  do  you  use 
my  house  for  a  meeting  place?  What  is  all  this,  anyway? 
What  is  the  idea,  Kite?  " 

Kite  smiled  his  dry  and  mirthless  smile;  and  he  said  mock 
ingly:  "Do  not  fret  yourself,  Chase.  Our  concern  is  with  this 
young  man,  with  Wint.  You  shall  hear."  He  was  stripping 
off  his  overcoat  in  a  business-like  w&y.  This  was  Kite's  big 
hour,  and  he  meant  to  make  the  most  of  it.  He  dropped  the 
coat  on  the  seat  in  the  hall ;  and  Amos  and  Ed  Skinner  imitated 
him;  and  Kite  said  briskly,  rubbing  his  hands: 

"  Now,  then,  where  can  we  have  our  little  talk?  " 

Chase  looked  at  Wint  uncertainly;  and  Wint,  still  held  by 
that  curious  inhibition  which  made  his  voice  level  and  low,  said 
quietly: 

"  The  sitting  room.     Come  in,  gentlemen." 

There  were  not  chairs  enough  for  them  in  the  sitting  room. 
Wint  went  into  the  dining  room  for  another,  and  found  his 
mother  there,  putting  away  the  dishes.  She  asked  in  a  whisper: 

"Who  is  it,  Wint?     Mr.  Kite?" 

Wint  nodded.  "  Yes,  mother.  Several  men.  You'd  better 
go  upstairs  the  back  way." 

He  was  so  steady  that  she  was  reassured;  he  did  not  seem 
excited  or  disturbed.  Yet  was  there  something  about  him  that 
made  her  think  of  a  hurt  and  weary  little  boy;  and  she  laughed 
softly,  and  put  her  arm  around  him  and  made  him  kiss  her. 
He  did  so,  patting  her  head ;  and  then  he  said : 

"  There,  mother.     Run  along." 

She  went  out  toward  the  kitchen,  and  Wint  took  the  chair  he 
had  come  for  into  the  other  room.  He  found  the  others  all 
sitting  down.  Amos  had  slumped  into  the  biggest  and  the 
easiest  chair  in  the  room.  B.  B.  sat  straight  in  the  straightest 
chair,  his  round,  firm  hands  clasped  on  his  knees.  B.  B.'s  legs 
were  short  and  chubby;  and  his  lap  was  barely  big  enough  to 
hold  his  clasped  hands.  Ed  Skinner  and  Chase  were  on  the 


358  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

couch  at  one  side  of  the  room.  Routt  sat  on  the  piano  stool, 
twirling  slowly  back  and  forth  through  a  six-inch  arc.  Kite, 
in  the  manner  of  a  presiding  officer,  had  pulled  his  chair  to 
the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  sat  there  very  stiffly, 
his  head  held  high  in  that  ridiculous  likeness  to  a  turkey. 

Wint  placed  his  chair  just  inside  the  door,  and  sat  down.  He 
and  Kite  were  the  only  composed  persons  in  the  room.  B.  B. 
looked  acutely  embarrassed  and  uncomfortable;  Chase  was 
angry;  Skinner  was  nervous;  Routt's  ease  was  palpably 
assumed.  And  Amos  was  fumbling  uncertainly  with  his  black 
old  pipe.  He  asked,  when  Wint  came  in: 

"  Your  mother  mind  smoke  in  her  sitting  room?  " 

Wint  said:  "No;  go  ahead."  He  filled  his  own  pipe,  and 
Amos  sliced  a  fill  from  his  plug  and  deliberately  prepared  his 
smoke  and  lighted  it.  Kite  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  begin.  He 
had  taken  a  letter  or  two  and  a  slip  of  paper  from  his  pockets 
and  was  studying  them  in  silence.  Wint  thought  he  recognized 
that  slip  of  paper.  A  check.  ...  It  seemed  to  him  that  a 
cold  hand  clutched  his  throat.  He  felt  a  sick  sense  of  the  hope 
lessness  of  it  all;  a  sick  despair.  Not  so  much  on  his  own  ac 
count. 

Kite  at  last  looked  around  the  room,  and  said  importantly: 

"Well,  gentlemen!" 

Wint's  father  could  be  still  no  longer.  He  cried :  "  See  here, 
Kite,  what's  all  this  tomfoolery?  What's  this  nonsense?  It's 
an  outrage.  Be  quick,  or  be  gone.  I've  no  time  to  waste." 

Kite  looked  at  Chase;  and  then  he  looked  at  Wint  and  asked 
maliciously:  "Do  you  bid  me  be  gone,  too,  young  man?  " 

Wint  shook  his  head.  "  Say  what  you  have  to  say,"  he  sug 
gested;  and  there  was  a  great  weariness  in  his  voice. 

Kite  nodded.  "I  mean  to."  And  to  Chase:  "You  see,  the 
young  man  understands  it  is  in  his  interest  to  handle  this  thing 
among  ourselves." 

"  To  handle  what  thing?  "  Chase  demanded.  Kite  cleared 
his  throat. 

"  A  matter,"  he  said  importantly,  "  that  concerns  first  of 
all  the  good  name  of  Hardiston.  A  matter  that  concerns,  very 


POOR  HETTY  AGAIN  359 

intim'ately,  the  good  name  of  your  son.  A  matter  that  will  be 
decisive  in  the  mayoralty  campaign  now  pending.  A  matter  — " 
His  poise  suddenly  gave  way  before  the  fierce  rush  of  his 
exultation;  and  he  cried:  "A  matter  that  will  stop  this  damned 
Sunday-school  nonsense  of  denying  grown  men  the  right  to 
do  as  they  please.  That's  what  it  is,  by  God!  A  matter  that 
will  show  up  this  young  hypocrite  in  his  true  light.  If  I  were 
not  merciful,  I  would  have  spread  it  before  the  town  long  ago.'* 

He  stopped  abruptly,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  as  though 
challenging  them  to  deny  that  he  was  merciful.  No  one  denied 
it.  B.  B.  cleared  his  throat;  and  the  sound  was  startling  in 
the  silence  that  had  followed  Kite's  words.  Amos  puffed  slowly 
at  his  pipe  and  squinted  across  the  room  at  Wint.  Wint 
said  nothing.  He  had  scarce  heard  what  Kite  said;  he  was 
curiously  abstracted,  as  though  all  this  did  not  concern  him. 
He  was  like  a  spectator,  looking  on. 

Chase  looked  at  his  son;  and  there  was  fear  in  the  man's 
eyes.  For  Kite  was  so  terribly  confident.  Chase  looked  at  his 
son,  expecting  Wint  to  make  denial,  to  defend  himself.  But 
Wint  said  nothing;  Wint  did  not  lift  his  eyes  from  the  floor. 
He  only  puffed  slowly  and  indolently  at  his  pipe,  moving  not 
at  all. 

Kite  cleared  his  thro'at  again;  and  his  dry  little  eyes  were 
gleaming. 

"  I  have  given  this  matter  some  thought,"  he  said.  "  Some 
thought,  since  the  facts  came  into  my  hands.  And  I  must 
confess,  at  first  they  seemed  incredible.  I  made  investigations, 
I  was  forced  to  believe  —  the  whole,  black  story."  He  paused 
again.  He  wanted  some  one  to  question  him,  but  no  one  spoke. 
He  went  on: 

"  My  first  impulse  was  to  cry  the  truth  to  the  whole  town. 
But  I  held  my  hand.  I  went  to  the  city  for  the  final  proof. 
Got  it.  And  when  I  came  back,  it  was  to  find  that  this  young 
man  had  caused  the  arrest  of  one  of  my  friends,  Lutcher,  on  a 
ridiculous  liquor  charge.  Simply  because  Radabaugh  dis 
covered  Lutcher  and  three  others  engaged  in  a  game  of  cards, 
drinking  as  they  had  a  right  to  do. 


360  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

"  I  was  indignant ;  but  even  then  I  was  merciful.  I  wanted 
to  give  this  young  man  a  chance;  and  I  went  to  him  and  offered 
him  the  chance  to  save  himself." 

He  paused,  moved  one  of  his  hands  as  though  to  brush  the 
possibility  aside.  "  But  it  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  tell  you 
that  his  chief  trait  is  a  blind  and  unreasoning  stubbornness.  It 
betrayed  him,  on  this  occasion.  He  rejected  my  offer;  refused 
to  take  the  easy  way  out. 

"  That  was  this  morning.  I  considered.  My  chief  concern 
was  for  the  good  name  of  Hardiston;  that  such  a  man  should 
not  be  chosen  Mayor.  This  seemed  to  me  the  simplest  and 
least  painful  way  to  arrange  his  withdrawal.  So  I  asked  you 
to  come  here." 

Amos  drawled  from  the  depths  of  his  chair :  "  Did  you  fetch 
us  here  to  talk  us  to  death,  Kite?  " 

Kite  smiled  bitterly.     "No,  Amos.     Be  patient." 

Chase  was  watching  Wint,  still  with  that  desperate  hope  in 
his  eyes.  They  were  all  watching  Wint;  but  Wint  was  look 
ing  at  the  floor,  following  with  his  eyes  the  pattern  in  the  rug. 
This  was  the  end.  He  had  just  about  decided  that.  There 
was  in  him  no  more  will  to  fight.  He  had  been  a  good 
Mayor.  If  they  didn't  want  to  re-elect  him  —  that  was  their 
affair.  He  would  do  no  more.  He  had  a  sick  sense  of  be 
trayal.  His  lips  twisted  in  a  bitter  little  smile. 

Kite  addressed  him  directly.  "  So,  young  man,  we  want  your 
withdrawal  from  the  mayoralty  race.  And  this  whole  matter 
will  end  right  here." 

Wint  still  did  not  lift  his  head.  His  father  thought  the  boy 
was  shamed;  and  his  heart  was  torn.  Kite  asked  sharply: 
"  Come!  What  do  you  say?  " 

Wint  looked  at  Kite,  then,  for  the  first  time;  looked  at  him 
with  a  slow,  steady,  incurious  gaze  that  made  Kite  twist  in  his 
chair.  And  he  repeated,  in  a  low  voice: 

"  You  want  me  to  withdraw?  " 

"  Exactly.     Now." 

Wint  shook  his  head  gently.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  won't  with 
draw." 


POOR  HETTY  AGAIN  361 

Kite  threw  up  one  clenched  fist  in  a  furious  gesture.  "  By 
God,  if  you  don't  you'll  be  run  out  of  town!  " 

"I'm  in  the  fight,"  said  Wint  steadily.  He  spoke  so  low 
they  could  scarce  hear  him.  "  I'm  in  the  fight.  I'll  stay." 

"  Then  I'll  smash  you,  flat  as  a  pancake.     You  young  fool." 

"  Kite,"  Wint  murmured  gently.  "  I  don't  give  a  damn  what 
you  do.  I'm  in  to  stay." 

Kite  banged  his  fist  on  the  table.  "Then  the  whole  story 
comes  out." 

"Let  it  come,"  said  Wint. 

"  You  mean  you  want  me  to  tell  these  men  here?  The  black 
shame?  " 

"Yes,"  Wint  assented.  "Tell  them  anything  you  please." 
He  lowered  his  eyes  again,  resumed  his  study  of  the  carpet, 
puffed  at  his  pipe.  Kite  stared  at  the  boy's  bent  head  as  though 
he  could  not  believe  his  eyes,  or  his  ears.  He  had  counted  so 
surely  on  Wint's  surrender;  he  had  been  so  sure  that  Wint 
would  yield. 

But  Wint  .  .  .  The  fool  sat  there,  passively  defying  him; 
daring  him.  Kite's  face  twisted  with  a  sudden  furious  grimace. 
He  jerked  back  his  head.  So  be  it.  He  flung  defiant  eyes 
around  the  room;  he  said  abruptly,  curtly: 

"  Very  well.  Here  it  is.  This  young  rip  is  the  father  of 
Hetty  Morfee's  child." 

There  was  a  moment's  terrible  silence  in  the  room.  Then 
Jack  Routt  cried:  "Good  Lord,  Kite,  that  can't  be!  Wint's  a 
decent  chap." 

Kite  snapped  at  him:  "Can't  be?  It  is.  Here's  the  very 
check  he  gave  her,  to  go  away."  He  shook  the  slip  of  paper  in 
the  air.  "  What  do  you  say  to  that?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  Routt  insisted.  "  I've  known  Wint  too 
long."  He  got  up  and  strode  across  and  gripped  Wint's 
shoulder.  "  Tell  him  it's  a  damned  lie,  Wint,"  he  begged. 

Wint  looked  up  at  Routt  with  slow,  steady  eyes;  and  Routt, 
after  a  moment,  could  not  meet  them.  He  turned  back  to  Kite, 
protesting  Wint's  innocence.  Their  wrangling  voices  jangled  in 
the  silence.  B.  B.  pretended  not  to  hear,  stared  straight  ahead 


362  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

of  him.  Ed  Skinner  twisted  uneasily  where  he  sat.  Amos, 
deep  in  his  chair,  was  watching  Wint;  and  Wint's  father  was 
watching  Wint,  too.  Watching  his  son  with  a  desperate,  be 
seeching  look  in  his  eyes. 

Wint  did  not  see;  he  was  looking  at  the  floor;  and  he  was 
thinking  of  Hetty,  thinking  what  this  would  mean  to  her.  That 
which  had  come  to  her  was  already  guessed  at,  in  Hardiston; 
now  every  one  would  know  beyond  need  of  guessing.  She 
would  be  outcast;  no  saving  her;  but  one  black  road  ahead.  For 
the  thing  would  be  believed.  He  knew  that.  People  had  been 
ready  to  believe  before  this;  ready  to  accept  the  mere  rumor. 
His  own  father,  his  own  mother.  .  .  .  This  had  been  their 
first  thought  when  he  wished  to  help  Hetty.  Joan.  .  .  .  She 
had  sought  to  question  him.  Yes,  they  would  believe.  Every 
one. 

He  was  not  angry  at  them  for  their  credulity;  he  pitied 
them.  That  they  should  be  so  malignant,  and  so  blind. 
He  was  quite  calm,  not  at  all  sorry  for  himself.  Sorry  for 
them.  And  most  of  all,  he  was  sorry  for  Hetty.  He  had  al 
ways  liked  Hetty;  a  good  girl,  give  her  a  chance.  The  stuff 
of  good  womanhood  in  her.  Blasted  now.  .  .  .  He  wished 
he  might  find  a  way  to  help  her.  Some  way.  .  .  . 

A  word  from  Kite  to  Routt  cut  through  his  thoughts.  "  If 
you  won't  believe  me,"  Kite  exclaimed,  "  will  you  believe  her?  " 

"  Hetty  never  said  this,"  Routt  protested ;  and  Kite  got  up 
and  went  swiftly  out  into  the  hall,  saying  over  his  shoulder: 

"  Just  a  minute,  then." 

Every  one  looked  toward  the  door,  listening.  They  heard 
Kite  open  the  front  door  and  call: 

"  Lutcher." 

A  man  answered,  outside.  Kite  asked:  "Is  she  there?" 
The  man  said : 

"Yes." 

"  Send  her  in,"  Kite  directed.  And  they  heard  the  sound  of 
moving  feet. 

So  she  had  been  waiting  there,  all  this  time,  with  Lutcher. 
Wint  thought  she  must  have  been  miserably  unhappy  as  she 
waited.  When  he  heard  her  step  in  the  hall,  he  looked  up  and 


POOR  HETTY  AGAIN  363 

saw  her.  Her  eyes  met  his  for  an  instant;  and  Wint  was 
curiously  stirred  by  the  pitiful  appeal  in  them.  As  though  she 
begged  him  to  forgive.  .  .  .  Then  her  eyes  left  his.  She 
came  in  and  stood,  just  inside  the  door.  Kite  said: 

"  Sit  down."  He  gave  her  his  own  chair,  by  the  table.  The 
girl  moved  apathetically  across  the  room  and  took  the  chair. 
Kite  looked  down  at  her. 

"  Now,  Hetty,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  questions  a 
child.  "  I  have  been  telling  them  what  you  told  me.  They 
think  I  am  lying.  Am  I  lying?  " 

She  shook  her  head  slowly;  and  Kite  looked  from  man  to 
man  triumphantly.  Routt  cried: 

"  Hetty,  you  don't  understand.  He  said  Wint  was  your  — 
your  baby's  father?  That's  not  true.  It  can't  be." 

She  looked  at  Routt;  and  there  was  a  somber  light  in  her 
eyes.  She  said,  in  a  low,  steady  voice: 

"Yes.     Sure  it's  true." 

Her  eyes  remained  on  Routt.  He  stepped  back  as  though 
she  had  struck  him.  Wint  raised  his  head  and  looked  around 
the  room;  saw  Amos  squinting  at  his  pipe;  saw  B.  B.  ill  at 
ease,  and  Skinner  squirming;  saw  his  father  white  and  shaken 
in  his  seat.  Then  Routt  turned  to  him,  exclaiming: 

"  Wint,   for   God's   sake.  .  .  .     You  heard   what   she   said." 

Wint  hardly  knew  himself;  he  was,  suddenly  and  surpris 
ingly,  very  calm,  and  happy  with  an  anguished  happiness  of 
renunciation.  The  old  stubborn,  prideful  Wint  would  have 
denied,  have  fought,  have  sworn.  But  Wint  looked  at  Hetty; 
he  was  terribly  sorry  for  her.  He  surrendered  himself  to  a 
great  and  splendid  magnanimity. 

"  Yes,"  he  told  Routt.     "  I  heard." 

"But  it's  a  lie!" 

Wint  got  up  slowly,  looked  around  the  room,  studied  them 
all;  and  he  smiled.  "Hetty  would  not  lie  about  me,"  he  said. 
"  She  and  I  have  always  been  friends.  We  are  going  to  be 
married,  right  away." 

He  held  them  a  moment  more  with  his  steady  gaze;  they  were 
frozen,  every  man.  And  then  he  looked  at  Hetty,  and  saw 
her  eyes  widen  pitifully,  and  saw  her  face  twist  with  anguish. 


364  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

And  he  smiled  reassuringly,  and  he  said:  "  It's  all  right,  Hetty. 
Truly.  Don't  be  afraid." 

While  they  were  still  motionless,  he  turned  and  went  quietly 
into  the  hall.  Muldoon  had  been  dozing  under  his  chair;  the 
dog  scrambled  up  now  and  followed  him.  Wint  got  his  hat 
and  went  out  of  the  house,  Muldoon  upon  his  heels. 

In  the  room  he  had  left,  every  man  was  very  still.  Only  poor 
Hetty  crumpled  slowly  in  her  chair;  and  she  dropped  her 
head  in  her  arms  upon  the  table  and  began  to  cry,  with  great, 
gasping  sobs.  And  she  whispered  to  herself,  so  harshly  that 
they  all  could  hear: 

" My  God!     My  God!     Oh,  my  God!  " 

END  OF  BOOK  V 


BOOK  VI 
VICTORY 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   WEAVER   HOUSE  AGAIN 

THERE  is  a  dramatist  hidden  in  every  one  of  us.  We  like 
to  cast  ourselves  as  heroes,  as  heroines,  as  villains  of  the 
piece.  Make-believe  is  one  of  the  fundamental  instincts. 
It  is  human  nature  to  construct  a  drama  about  our  lives;  it 
is  also  very  human  to  seize  dramatic  situations. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  the  dramatic  in  Wint.  When  he 
left  his  home  that  night,  Muldoon  at  his  heels,  he  was  acutely 
conscious  that  his  life  was  broken.  He  had  lost  everything. 
He  had  lost  father,  and  mother;  and  he  had  lost  Joan.  They 
were  irrevocably  gone.  Furthermore,  he  was  beaten  in  his 
fight.  There  could  be  no  question  of  this.  Hardiston  would 
overwhelm  him.  There  was  left  for  him  in  this  world  — 
nothing. 

Wint  was  enough  of  a  boy  to  take  a  keen  delight  in  the 
tragedy  of  this ;  he  was  enough  of  a  boy  —  or  enough  of  a  dram 
atist,  for  the  two  things  are  in  many  ways  the  same  —  to 
emphasize  his  situation,  bring  out  the  high  lights,  vest  it  in 
the  trappings  of  drama.  He  did  not  think  of  himself  as  a 
hero,  for  having  sacrificed  everything  for  Hetty;  he  did  not 
think  of  that  phase  of  the  situation  at  all.  He  had  done  that 
because  it  was  the  inevitable  consequence  of  events.  It  was  the 
only  thing  he  could  do.  He  took  no  credit  to  himself  for  the 
doing.  But  he  did  picture  himself  as  broken  or  destroyed; 
and  as  he  walked,  more  or  less  aimlessly,  it  was  natural  that 
his  thoughts  should  cast  back  through  the  months  to  those  other 
days  when  he  had  fallen  low.  Thus  he  remembered  the 
Weaver  House,  and  Mrs.  Moody. 

There  seemed  to  him  something  appropriate  and  fitting  in 
the  idea  of  returning  to  the  Weaver  House  this  night.  He  had 

367 


368  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

risen  out  of  it;  he  would  return  to  it.     It  was  in  such  sur 
roundings,  now,  that  he  belonged. 

He  turned  that  way. 

It  was  no  more  than  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  or  perhaps 
a  little  later,  when  Wint  left  his  home.  The  day  had  been 
fine;  the  night  was  clear,  and  there  was  a  moon.  It  was  pleas 
ant  to  be  abroad  on  such  a  night.  Wint  took  a  leisurely 
course  that  brought  him  through  the  last  fringes  of  houses  above 
the  railroad  yards;  and  he  followed  the  tag  end  of  a  street 
down  the  hill  to  the  flats  covered  with  slack  and  cinders.  In 
the  light  of  day,  this  was  a  hideous  place,  black  and  begrimed. 
But  the  moon  could  glorify  even  this.  It  painted  blue  shadows 
everywhere;  it  laid  streaks  of  silver  light  along  the  rails;  it 
touched  a  pool  of  water,  a  puddle  here  and  there,  and  under  the 
touch  the  water  became  quicksilver,  alive  and  beautiful.  A 
switching  engine  moved  down  the  yard,  and  when  the  fire 
man  twitched  open  the  door  to  replenish  the  fires,  the  glare 
shone  in  a  pale  glow  upon  his  figure  and  back  upon  the  tender. 
The  long  strings  of  cars,  box  cars  with  open  doors,  or  coal 
cars  loaded  high,  took  on  a  beauty  of  their  own  in  the  night; 
and  the  winking  switch  lamps  were  like  jewels,  like  rubies  and 
emeralds  shining  in  the  moon. 

He  had  to  climb  between  two  freight  cars,  on  his  way  across 
the  yard;  and  Muldoon  scurried  underneath  them.  Wint 
grimed  his  hands  on  the  cars,  and  rubbed  them  together,  cleans 
ing  them  as  well  as  he  could,  while  he  went  on.  He  picked 
his  way  across  the  tracks,  past  the  roundhouse  where  a  loco 
motive  slumbered  hissingly,  and  on  into  the  fringes  of  the 
locality  where  the  Weaver  House  awaited  him. 

It  is  the  custom  in  Hardiston  that  when  the  moon  is  full,  be 
it  cloudy  or  clear,  the  street  lamps  are  not  lighted.  Thus  the 
street  along  which  Wint  took  his  way  was  illuminated  only  by 
the  moon.  On  either  side,  the  dingy,  squalid  houses  stood, 
with  a  flicker  of  light  from  one  and  another  where  those  who 
dwelt  within  were  still  awake.  A  little  later,  he  passed  a  store 
or  two,  and  turned  a  corner,  and  so  came  to  the  hotel. 

Something  prompted  him  to  stop  outside  and  look  in  through 
the  dirty  window  glass.  It  was  so  light  outside,  and  the 


THE  WEAVER  HOUSE  AGAIN  369 

lamp  inside  furnished  such  a  meager  illumination,  that  Mrs. 
Moody  saw  him  at  the  window;  and  she  took  him  for  some 
wandering  ne'er-do-well,  and  came  scolding  to  the  door.  "  Be 
off,"  she  cried,  before  she  saw  who  it  was.  "  Get  away  from 
there." 

Muldoon  snarled  at  her;  and  Wint  said:  "Quiet,  boy,"  and 
to  the  woman :  "  It's  me.  Wint  Chase." 

She  came  out  and  peered  up  at  him;  and  he  saw  her  horribly 
even  teeth  shine  like  silver  between  her  cracked  old  lips.  "  You, 
is  it?  "  she  exclaimed  aggressively.  "  Well,  and  you  don't 
need  to  come  a-snooping  around  here.  We're  lawful  folks, 
here.  And  you  know  it.  So  you  can  just  go  along." 

He  said:  "I  came  for  lodging;"  and  she  backed  away. 

"Eh?"  she  asked. 

"For  lodging,"  he  repeated.     "Can  you  give  me  a  room?  " 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  anyhow?"  she  demanded. 
"  You  had  a  fight  with  your  paw  again?  "  She  was  still  aggres 
sively  and  suspiciously  on  guard.  He  laughed,  and  said 
whimsically: 

"  Come;  you  wouldn't  turn  an  old  friend  out.  Let  me  have 
a  room." 

So  she  thawed,  became  her  old,  meanly  ingratiating  self. 
"  Why,  deary,"  she  protested,  "  you  know  old  Mother  Moody 
never  turned  a  man  away.  You  come  right  in  now.  Come 
right  in  where  it's  warm.  Did  you  say  you'd  had  a  scrap  with 
your  paw?  " 

Wint  went  before  her  into  the  office  of  the  squalid  hotel. 
Muldoon  kept  close  to  his  heels;  and  Jim,  Mrs.  Moody's  dog, 
growled  from  beneath  the  table.  Mrs.  Moody  squalled  at  him: 

"  You,  Jim,  be  still." 

Wint  looked  around  him;  it  was  curious  to  find  the  place 
so  little  changed.  A  train  clanked  past  on  the  track  that 
flanked  the  hotel.  He  could  almost  hear  the  gurgle  of  the 
muddy  waters  of  the  creek  behind.  The  office  itself  was  lighted, 
as  it  had  always  been,  by  a  single  oil  lamp.  It  did  not  seem 
to  Wint  that  this  lamp  had  been  cleaned  since  he  was  here 
before.  It  stood  on  the  square  old  table  in  the  corner,  where 
the  wall  benches  ran  along  two  sides.  The  dog  slept  under  this 


370  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

table;  and  the  boy  —  the  same  boy  —  was  leaning  his  elbows 
on  the  table  by  the  lamp  and  poring  with  mumbling  lips  over 
a  tattered,  paper-backed  tale.  This  boy's  clothes  were  still  too 
small;  his  wrists  stuck  out  from  his  sleeves,  his  neck  reared 
itself  bare  and  gaunt  above  the  collar  of  the  coat.  There  was  a 
strange  and  pitiful  atmosphere  of  age  and  experience  about  him. 

There  was  one  change  in  the  room,  as  Wint  saw  when  he  had 
persuaded  Mrs.  Moody  to  leave  him  to  his  own  devices,  and 
she  had  gone  to  her  chair  behind  the  high  counter  that  had  been 
a  bar.  This  change  lay  in  the  fact  that  one  of  the  two  old 
checker  players  was  no  longer  here.  The  other  sat  on  the  wall 
bench  in  the  corner  behind  the  table;  the  disused  checkerboard 
lay  before  him.  He  was  asleep,  with  sagging  head,  his  occupa 
tion  gone.  His  white  beard  was  stained  an  ugly  brown  below 
his  mouth.  Wint  wondered  if  the  other  old  man  were  dead. 
Perhaps. 

He  did  not  wish  to  be  alone,  just  then;  he  wanted  companion 
ship,  friendly  and  impersonal.  So  he  sat  down  beside  the  boy, 
and  filled  his  pipe,  and  lighted  it,  and  asked  amiably: 

"What  are  you  reading,  son?  " 

The  boy  was  too  absorbed  to  answer.  He  brushed  at  his  ear 
with  his  hand  as  though  a  fly  buzzed  there,  and  turned  a  dog 
eared  page.  But  the  sound  of  Wint's  voice  so  near  him  woke 
the  old  man;  he  stirred,  opened  his  eyes,  looked  all  about. 
And  he  reached  across  and  laid  a  hand  like  a  claw  on  Wint's 
arm. 

"Play  checkers?"  he  asked  hoarsely.  "Play  checkers,  do 
you?  " 

"  A  little,"  Wint  said. 

"  I'll  play  you,"  the  old  man  challenged.  "  I'm  a  good 
player.  I  always  was.  Played  all  my  life.  Played  every  night, 
right  here  at  this  table,  with  the  best  player  in  the  county,  for 
seven  years."  His  skinny  old  hands  were  feverishly  arranging 
the  pieces,  while  Wint  took  his  place  by  the  board.  "  I  beat 
him,  too,"  the  old  man  boasted.  "  Beat  him  lots  of  times.  He'd 
say  so  himself.  He  would,  but  he  had  to  go  and  die."  There 
was  resentment  in  his  voice,  as  at  a  personal  wrong.  He  said 
curtly:  "  Your  move,"  and  spoke  no  more. 


THE  WEAVER  HOUSE  AGAIN  371 

Wint  moved,  the  old  man  countered.  On  Wint's  fifth  move 
—  he  was  an  indifferent  player  —  the  old  man  cackled  gleefully. 
"  That  beats  you,"  he  cried.  "  Heh,  heh,  heh!  That  beats  you, 
now." 

It  did;  and  Wint  lost  the  next  game,  and  the  next,  as  easily. 
His  success  put  the  old  man  in  the  best  of  humor.  He  laughed 
much  between  games,  studying  the  board  with  fixed  intensity 
while  the  play  was  in  progress.  Wint  watched  the  old  man  as 
much  as  he  watched  the  board;  he  studied  the  old  fellow,  with 
a  curiously  wistful  eye.  This  old  wreck  of  manhood  had  been 
a  boy  once;  a  baby  once,  in  a  mother's  arms.  No  doubt  she 
had  dreamed  dreams  for  him.  Dreamed  he  might  be  President, 
some  day.  Might  be  anything.  .  .  .  This  is  one  of  the  things 
that  makes  babies  fascinating;  their  potentialities.  There  is 
no  greater  gamble  than  to  bring  a  baby  into  the  world.  Wint, 
considering  this,  thought  of  Hetty's  baby.  The  baby  that  had 
died.  As  well,  perhaps.  Otherwise,  it  might  have  come, 
some  day,  to  playing  checkers  in  the  Weaver  House.  He  put 
the  thought  aside  abruptly.  At  least,  it  would  have  lived. 
Even  this  old  man  had  lived.  No  doubt  life  had  been  reason 
ably  sweet  to  him  till  his  antagonist  died.  "  Had  to  go  and 
die.  .  .  ." 

The  old  man  accused  him.  "  You  ain't  trying  to  play,  young 
fellow.  Now  don't  you  go  easy  on  me.  I'll  show  you 
some  things."  And  Wint  gave  more  of  his  attention  to  the 
game. 

He  was  playing  when  the  door  opened  and  Jack  Routt  came 
in;  he  did  not  look  around  till  Jack  exclaimed  behind  him: 
"Wint!  By  God,  I  thought  you'd  be  here!  " 

He  looked  up  then,  and  said :  "  Hello,  Jack,"  in  a  calm 
voice,  and  went  on  with  his  play.  Routt  dropped  on  the  seat 
beside  him  and  caught  his  arm. 

"Here,  Wint,"  he  protested,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
Where'd  you  pick  up  that  old  duck?  Listen.  I  want  to.  ... 
Let's  go  outside." 

Wint  said:  "Wait  till  we  finish  the  game."  The  old  man 
seemed  unconscious  of  Routt's  presence;  and  when  Routt  spoke 
again,  Wint  bade  him  be  quiet,  and  wait.  Only  when  the  game 


372  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

was  done  did  he  rise.  To  the  old  man  he  said :  "  Thanks. 
We'll  have  another  game.  I'll  beat  you  yet." 

The  other  protested  jealously  at  his  going;  but  Wint  said 
he  must.  Then,  to  Routt:  "Come  upstairs." 

"Have  you  got  a  room?  "  Routt  asked,  amazed;  and  Wint 
said: 

"  Yes."     And  he  went  toward  the  stair.     Routt  followed  him. 

Mrs.  Moody  had  given  Wint  that  same  dingy  room  in  which 
he  had  spent  the  night  of  his  election.  They  went  there,  and 
Wint  bade  Routt  sit  down.  Routt  sat  on  the  bed;  Wint  stood 
indolently  by  the  door.  Routt  exclaimed  at  once: 

"  Wint,  I  want  you  to  know  this  wasn't  my  doing.  You  could 
have  knocked  me  flat.  I'm  sorry  as  hell." 

"  Of  course,"  Wint  agreed. 

"  I  want  to  know  if  there  isn't  some  way  we  can  fix  it  up," 
Routt  urged.  "  There  must  be  something  we  can  do.  Some 
damned  thing." 

"  There's  nothing  to  fix,"  Wint  told  him. 

"Nothing  to  fix?  Good  God!  "  Routt  shifted  his  position, 
reached  into  his  pocket.  "  My  Lord,  but  I'm  knocked  out. 
Shaky.  I've  got  to  have  a  drink.  Mind?  " 

"  Go  ahead." 

Routt  produced  a  flask.  He  held  it  toward  Wint.  "  Have  a 
slug?  "  Wint  shook  his  head.  Routt  drank,  again  asked: 
"  Sure  you  won't?  "  Wint  said: 

"  No." 

".If  I  were  in  your  shoes,"  said  Routt,  with  the  flask  still 
open  in  his  hand,  "  I'd  want  to  soak  myself  in  it.  A  good, 
stiff  drunk.  There  are  times  when  nothing  else  is  any  good." 

"  I  used  to  think  so,"  Wint  agreed. 

Routt  took  a  second  drink,  wiped  his  mouth,  screwed  the  cap 
on  the  flask  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  "  If  you  want  any,  say 
the  word,"  he  suggested.  "  Now,  Wint,  what  are  we  going  to 
do?" 

Wint,  leaning  quietly  against  the  wall,  stirred  a  little.  "  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  something,  Routt,"  he  said. 

"Tell  me?     What?" 


THE  WEAVER  HOUSE  AGAIN  373 

"  This,"  Wint  went  on  gently,  eyes  a  little  wistful.  "  This. 
That  I  —  know  you  now.  At  last." 

Routt  sat  for  an  instant  very  still;  then  he  got  to  his  feet. 
"Wint,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  my  —  friend,"  said  Wint.  "  Stuck  to 
that  thought.  People  warned  me.  Amos,  and  father;  and  — 
Joan.  Said  you  were  not  —  my  friend.  But  I  believed  you 
were." 

"  Damn  it,  I  am  your  friend." 

"  I'm  not  sorry  I  held  to  you  as  long  as  I  could,"  Wint 
went  on  impassively.  "  It's  a  good  thing  to  have  faith,  even 
in  —  false  friends.  But  —  I  know  you  now,  Routt.  You've 
made  me  drunk,  played  on  the  worst  in  me,  slandered  me, 
tricked  me,  played  your  part  in  this  black  thing  to-night."  He 
hesitated,  and  Routt  started  to  speak,  but  Wint  cut  in. 

"Are  you  —  responsible  for  Hetty,  Jack?"  he  asked. 

"  Am  I  ?  "  Routt  demanded.  "  Why,  damn  you,  you  said 
yourself.  .  .  ." 

"If  I  thought  you  were,"  Wint  told  him  evenly.  "If  I 
thought  you  had  done  that  to  her  .  .  .  She  was  a  nice  girl. 
Clean.  I  think  I'd  take  you  by  the  throat,  Routt,  and  kill  you 
here." 

Routt  cried  angrily:  "You're  crazy.  What  the  hell!  You 
said  yourself  that  you  .  .  ." 

"  In  fact,"  Wint  told  him,  "  unless  you  go  away,  I  am  going 
to  hurt  you  —  even  now.  Without  being  sure.  Hurt  you  as 
badly  as  I  can." 

Routt  started  to  speak;  then  Wint's  eyes  caught  his  and 
silenced  him.  He  stood  for  a  moment,  staring  at  the  other. 

And  his  eyes  fell.  He  looked  around  gropingly  for  his 
hat,  and  he  put  it  on.  He  went  past  Wint  at  the  door;  and  he 
went  past  quickly,  as  though  afraid  of  what  Wint  might  do. 

He  went  along  the  hall  and  down  the  stairs  without  speaking 
again. 

Wint,  left  alone,  stood  still  where  he  was  for  a  time;  then 
he  stirred  himself  and  began  to  prepare  for  bed.  He  moved 
slowly,  indolently.  Stripped  off  coat  and  collar,  sat  down  to 


374  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

unlace  his  shoes.  After  a  while,  he  crossed  and  opened  the 
window.  He  felt,  somehow,  infinitely  cleaner,  healthier,  since 
he  had  put  Jack  Routt  out  of  his  life.  He  felt  as  though  he  had 
washed  smears  of  grime  from  his  hands. 

Yet  there  was  a  certain  loneliness  upon  him,  too;  for  he  had 
lost  one  whom  he  had  counted  a  friend. 

After  a  while,  he  went  to  bed  and  slept  peacefully  enough  till 
dawn. 


CHAPTER  II 

A   BRIGHTER   CHAPTER 

THE  crowded  events  of  the  evening  before  had  wearied 
Wint  more  than  he  knew;  his  sleep  was  dreamless  and 
profound,  and  he  might  not  have  waked  till  midday  if 
it  had  not  been  for  Muldoon.  The  dog  slept  beside  Wint's  bed ; 
but  at  the  first  glint  of  day,  it  became  restless;  and  when  the 
sun  rose,  Muldoon  got  up  and  walked  stiffly  across  to  the  open 
window  and  propped  his  feet  on  the  sill  and  looked  out.  The 
slight  sound  of  his  nails  on  the  bare  floor  disturbed  Wint,  and 
he  turned  in  his  sleep;  and  Muldoon  came  back  to  the  bed  to 
see  what  was  the  matter.  Wint's  arm  was  hanging  over  the 
side  of  the  bed,  and  Muldoon  licked  his  master's  hand.  Which 
woke  Wint  effectually  enough. 

He  opened  his  eyes,  and  at  first  he  could  not  remember  where 
he  was.  The  dingy  room.  ...  He  stared  up  at  the  cracked 
and  broken  ceiling.  At  one  place,  a  patch  of  plaster  had  fallen, 
leaving  the  laths  bare.  It  took  Wint  some  little  time  to  rec 
ognize  his  surroundings.  But  at  last  he  remembered.  He 
sat  up  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  rumpling  Muldoon's  ears  with 
his  right  hand,  and  looked  around. 

The  room  contained,  besides  the  bed,  a  chair  and  a  wardrobe. 
His  clothes  were  on  the  chair.  The  sagging  doors  of  the  ward 
robe  hung  open.  There  was  nothing  inside  the  decrepit  thing. 
His  eyes  wandered  toward  the  mantel.  The  cracked  old  mirror 
still  hung  there.  His  eyes  fell  to  the  floor,  and  he  marked  the 
charred  place  near  the  hearth,  burned  there  that  night  of  his 
election  when  at  sight  of  his  own  image  in  the  mirror  he  had 
smashed  the  lamp  in  a  fury  of  shame.  He  remembered  that 
night,  now,  and  he  smiled  a  little  whimsically.  It  seemed  his 
fortunes  were  always  to  be  bound  up  with  this  dingy  room. 

Muldoon,  disturbed  by  Wint's  long  silence,  looked  up  at  his 
master,  and  barked,  under  his  breath,  uneasily.  Wint  took  the 

375 


376  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

dog's  head  in  both  his  hands  and  shook  it  gently  back  and  forth. 
"What's  the  matter,  pup?  "  he  asked  affectionately.  "What's 
on  your  mind?  What  are  you  fussing  about,  anyhow?  What 
have  you  got  to  fuss  about,  I'd  like  to  know?  Come." 

Muldoon  twisted  himself  free,  and  he  snarled.  It  was  a  part 
of  the  game.  Then  he  flung  himself  forward  and  pinned  Wint's 
right  hand  and  held  it,  growling.  Wint  took  him  by  the  scruff 
of  the  neck  and  lifted  the  dog  into  his  lap;  and  Muldoon's 
solid  body  accommodated  itself  to  Wint's  knees  and  he  lay  there, 
perfectly  contented. 

"You  stuck  around,  didn't  you,  boy?"  Wint  asked,  his 
voice  a  little  wistful.  "  The  rest  of  them  didn't  give  a  hoot 
for  Wint;  but  you  stuck  around.  Eh?  The  rest  of  them  didn't 
care.  '  Get  out.  Good  enough  for  him.'  That's  what  they'd 
say.  But  not  you,  eh,  Muldoon?  You  stuck.  Even  Jack  Routt. 
Even  Jack  came  only  to  offer  me  booze.  And  the  rest  of  them 
didn't  come  at  all.  Only  you,  pup.  You  and  I,  now.  But 
we'll  show  them  some  things.  Eh?  " 

Muldoon  rolled  his  eyes  up  at  Wint  and  said  nothing;  and 
Wint  lifted  the  dog  from  his  knees  to  the  bed.  "There,  take 
a  nap  while  I'm  dressing,"  he  said.  "Then  we'll  be  moving 
on." 

The  dog  stayed  obediently  on  the  bed;  and  Wint  dressed, 
moving  quietly  to  and  fro.  He  did  not  hurry.  He  was  pos 
sessed  by  an  easy  indolence.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing  in  the 
world  worth  hurrying  for.  He  was  not  unhappy;  he  whistled 
a  little,  as  he  dressed.  But  once  or  twice  he  remembered  that 
his  father  had  let  him  go  without  a  word,  and  he  winced  at 
the  thought.  And  once  or  'twice  he  remembered  that  he  had 
no  friend  now,  anywhere,  save  Muldoon;  and  that  was  not 
pleasant  remembering. 

But  for  the  most  part,  he  put  a  good  face  on  life.  "After 
all,  pup,"  he  told  Muldoon,  "  thing's  can't  be  any  worse.  So 
they're  bound  to  get  better.  And  we'll  just  play  that  hunch  for 
all  it's  worth.  Why  not?  Eh?  " 

Muldoon  had  no  objections;  he  wagged  the  stump  of  his 
tail  and  opened  his  jaws  and  laughed,  dog-fashion,  tongue  hang 
ing  happily.  Wint  grinned  at  him,  and  sat  down  to  tie  his  shoes. 


A  BRIGHTER  CHAPTER  377 

Save  for  collar  and  coat,  he  was  fully  dressed  when  he  heard 
through  the  open  door  the  voice  of  some  one  who  had  come 
into  the  office  of  the  Weaver  House,  downstairs.  The  voice 
was  unmistakable.  The  newcomer  was  Amos;  and  when  Wint 
realized  this,  he  stood  very  still,  and  his  face  turned  a  little 
white.  He  waited  without  moving.  There  was  nothing  else 
to  do. 

He  heard  Amos  and  some  one  else  coming  up  the  stairs, 
guided  by  Mrs.  Moody.  "  Right  along  here,"  the  old  dame  was 
saying.  "  Always  the  same  room.  I  always  give  him  the  best. 
That's  the  kind  of  a  gentleman  he  is,  when  he  comes  to  old 
Mother  Moody.  Right  here,  now." 

In  the  doorway  she  said :  "  Here's  the  Congressman  to  see 
you,  deary."  And  she  stood  aside  to  let  Amos  come  in. 
Wint  saw  that  B.  B.  Beecham  was  with  Amos,  on  the  other's 
heels.  He  watched  them,  steady  enough  by  this  time.  He 
wondered  what  they  had  come  for.  To  triumph?  That  would 
not  be  like  B.  B.  Nor  like  Amos. 

Amos  turned  and  told  Mrs.  Moody  to  go.  "  And  thank  you, 
ma'am,"  he  said.  She  went  away,  a  little  reluctantly.  She 
was  a  curious  old  woman;  she  liked  to  know  what  went  on  in 
her  hostelry.  But  —  Amos  had,  when  he  chose,  a  command 
ing  tone.  When  she  was  gone,  he  turned  and  looked  at  Wint, 
head  on  one  side,  squinting  good-humoredly ;  and  he  said: 

"Well,  Wint,  how's  tricks?" 

Wint  hesitated ;  then  he  said :  "  Good  morning,  both  of  you." 

Amos  nodded.     B.  B.  said :  "  Good  morning." 

Wint  looked  around  at  the  sparse  furnishings  of  the  room. 
"  You've  caught  me  early,"  he  said.  "  I'm  not  dressed  yet." 
And  he  added :  "  I  can't  offer  you  both  a  chair,  because  there's 
only  one  chair." 

"  Me,"  said  Amos,  "  I'll  sit  on  the  bed.     B.  B.,  sit  down." 

Wint  remained  on  his  feet.  "  Well,"  he  asked,  a  challenge 
in  his  voice,  "what's  on  your  mind?  " 

Amos  leaned  back  against  the  wall  and  began  to  fill  his  pipe. 
"  Nothing  much,  Wint,"  he  said  slowly.  "  We  come  down  here 
principally  to  shake  you  by  the  hand.  Don't  let  me  forget 
t'  do  it,  before  I  go." 


378  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

His  tone  was  friendly  and  reassuring.  Wint  wondered  just 
what  he  meant.  He  smiled  a  little,  and  said:  "All  right." 

"Thought  you  might  be  glad  to  see  your  friends,"  Amos 
added;  and  Wint  said,  with  lips  a  little  white: 

"  I  would  be." 

"  Well,"  Amos  told  him.     "  Here's  two  of  us." 

Wint  looked  at  the  Congressman;  and  he  looked  at  B.  B. 
B.  B.  said  quietly :  "  That  was  a  fine  thing  you  did  last  night, 
Wint.5' 

Wint  flushed,  as  though  he  were  ashamed  of  what  he  had 
done.  "  I  don't  understand  this,"  he  said,  a  little  impatiently. 
"What  do  you  want?  Out  with  it!  " 

Amos  said:  "Want  to  help  you,  any  way  we  can." 

Wint's  eyes  narrowed,  and  he  flung  out  a  hand.  "You're 
too  darned  mysterious,  Amos." 

Amos  lighted  his  pipe.  "  Well,  Wint,  I  don't  aim  to  be,"  he 
declared.  "  I'm  talking  straight  as  I  know.  B.  B.  and  me 
are  on  your  side;  that's  all.  We're  taking  orders  from  you. 
We  do  anything  you  say." 

Wint  laughed,  a  sudden,  harsh  laugh.  "  I've  heard  they  give 
a  condemned  man  anything  he  wants  —  the  last  morning,"  he 
exclaimed. 

Amos  nodded.  "  Yes,  I've  heard  tell  o'  that.  But  what's  that 
got  to  do  with  this?  " 

"  Plain  enough,  I  should  think." 

"  You  don't  count  yourself  a  condemned  man.;  now,  do  you?  " 

"  I  should  think  so." 

Amos  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  "  And  here  I  thought  you 
said  last  night  you  didn't  aim  to  quit." 

"  I  don't.     But  I'll  be  snowed  under  —  now.     Of  course." 

"  Well,"  said  Amos,  "  that  may  be  so.  I  ain't  sure. 
Gergue  will  know,  time  he's  talked  around  a  spell.  Prob'ly 
you  are  —  are  beat.  But  I've  seen  men  beat  before  that  turned 
out  pretty  strong  in  the  end."  He  added  slowly:  "Anyway, 
licked  or  unlicked,  I'm  on  your  side,  Wint.  And  always  was." 

Wint  stared  at  him  with  a  curious,  threatening  light  in  his 
eyes.  "  What's  the  idea?  You  turned  me  down  cold,  in  public. 
Now  you  come  whining  around.  .  .  ." 


A  BRIGHTER  CHAPTER  379 

"  I'm  not  whining,  Wint,"  said  Amos  cheerfully.  "  Do  you 
think  I'm  whining,  B.  B.?  " 

B.  B.  smiled.  "  Congressman  Caretall  has  his  own  methods, 
Wint.  I  know  he  seemed  to  be  against  you;  but  I  also  know 
that  he's  been  secretly  working  for  you,  that  every  vote  he  can 
swing  will  go  to  you.  He's  been  passing  that  word  around  for 
a  week." 

Wint  hesitated,  looking  from  one  to  the  other.  "  I  never 
caught  you  in  a  lie,  B.  B.,"  he  said. 

"  It's  true  enough,"  the  editor  told  him.  "  You  see  — " 
He  looked  at  Amos,  then  went  on :  "  You  see,  your  father  has 
no  use  for  Amos.  And  Amos  knew  it.  He  also  knew  your 
father  could  do  a  good  deal  to  help  you  win  this  election.  But 
—  Chase  would  not  be  on  your  side  so  long  as  Amos  was  with 
you.  Do  you  see?  " 

"  I  see  that  much,"  said  Wint.     He  was  thinking  hard. 

"  But  your  father  has  been  working  for  you  since  Amos  pre 
tended  to  have  turned  against  you.  Hasn't  he?  " 

"Yes." 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  thought  of  that,"  B.  B.  suggested ; 
and  Wint  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  Amos, 
and  asked  huskily: 

"Is  it  true,  Amos?" 

Amos  grinned ;  and  he  said :  "  I'm  like  you.  I  never  knowed 
B.  B.  to  tell  a  lie." 

"  But  why  didn't  you  tell  me?  " 

"  You  can't  keep  a  secret,  Wint.  You're  too  damned  honest. 
Maybe  you're  too  honest  for  politics.  I  don't  know.  Anyhow, 
I  couldn't  let  on  to  you  without  your  father  seeing  it  in  your 
eye." 

Wint  said,  grinning  a  little  shakily:  "  It  hurt  me  a  good  deal, 
just  the  same." 

"  I  guess  you'll  outgrow  that." 

"  I  suppose  so." 

He  said  nothing  more  for  a  minute;  and  Amos  puffed  at  his 
pipe,  and  B.  B.  studied  Wint,  smiling  a  little  at  the  young  man's 
confusion.  Wint  was  flushed;  and  he  was  happier  than  he  had 
ever  expected  to  be  again.  These  two  were  true  friends,  at 


380  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

least.  Not  all  the  world  had  turned  its  back  on  him.  He 
crossed  abruptly  and  gripped  their  hands. 

"  Why,  that's  all  right,"  said  Amos,  marking  how  Wint  was 
moved.  "  If  you  hadn't  run  away  last  night,  before  we  could 
move,  I'd  have  told  you  then.  I  tried  to  find  you,  after.  But 
no  one  seemed  to  know." 

Wint  nodded.  "  I  just  walked  blindly,  for  a  while.  I  could 
not  go  home.  This  was  the  first  place  I  thought  of." 

Amos  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke.     "  Well,  that's  all  right." 

"  How  did  you  find  out  I  was  here,  now?  "  Wint  asked. 
"Just  guess?  Or  what?" 

"  Jack  Routt  is  —  spreading  the  word,"  Amos  explained. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  something  hidden  behind  his  simple 
statement. 

"  Routt?     Yes,  he  was  here  last  night,"  Wint  agreed. 

"  Yes,  he  said  he  was."  Wint  caught  the  implication  in  the 
Congressman's  tone,  and  he  asked: 

"What's  the  matter?     What  does  Routt  say?" 

"  Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  says  you  were  down  here  last 
night,  stewed  to  the  eyes  and  getting  steweder  all  the  time." 

Wint's  eyes  narrowed ;  then  he  laughed.  "  Oh,  he  says 
that?  " 

"  Says  it  frequent  and  generous." 

"  He  came  down  last  night  and  suggested  that  I  drown  my 
sorrows,"  Wint  explained.  "  I  — "  He  hesitated.  "  You  see, 
Jack  and  I  —  I've  always  counted  him  my  best  friend.  But  I 
seemed  to  see  through  him  last  night.  I  —  don't  count  him 
my  friend  any  more." 

"  We-ell,"  Amos  drawled,  "  I  can't  say  as  I  blame  you  for 
that.  I'll  say  he  don't  talk  friendly  about  you." 

Wint,  flushing,  asked  quickly :  "  You  don't  believe  what  he's 

*  O    99 

saying  c 

Amos  shook  his  head.  "  I  know  a  hangover  when  I  see  one; 
and  I  know  when  I  don't." 

Wint  nodded.  "  I'm  not  starting  in  again  on  the  booze  at 
this  stage  of  the  game." 

"No;  I'd  guess  not." 

Wint  sat  down  beside  Amos  on  the  tumbled  bed.     "  Now, 


A  BRIGHTER  CHAPTER  381 

Amos,  let's  get  down  to  tacks.  I  said  last  night  I  was  going 
to  stick;  and  I  meant  it.  I  mean  it  all  the  more,  now,  with 
you  to  back  me.  The  thing  is  — " 

Amos  turned  his  head  toward  the  door.  "  Some  one  coming," 
he  said;  and  Wint  heard  steps  on  the  stair,  and  Mrs.  Moody's 
cheerful  harangue.  He  got  up  quickly.  His  father  stood  in 
the  doorway. 

In  the  long  moment  of  silence  that  followed  the  appearance 
of  the  elder  Chase,  Wint  put  his  whole  heart  into  the  effort  to 
read  his  father's  face.  Was  there  anger  there?  Or  shame? 
Or  bitter  reproach?  Reason  enough,  in  all  conscience,  for  any 
one  of  these  emotions.  He  stared  deep  into  his  father's  eyes. 

The  elder  Chase  came  into  the  room,  one  stiff  step;  and  he 
looked  at  Wint,  and  at  B.  B.,  and  at  Amos.  His  lips  twitched 
a  little  at  sight  of  Amos,  then  set  firmly  together  again.  That 
was  all. 

Wint  moved  toward  him  a  little.  "Dad  .  .  ."  he  said 
huskily. 

His  father's  eyes  searched  Wint's.  The  older  man's  voice 
was  shaking.  He  said  slowly :  "  Routt  is  telling  Hardiston  you 
are  drunk,  down  here." 

Wint  nodded.     "Yes;  I'd  heard." 

"  I  heard  him  telling  men  this  thing." 

Wint  said  nothing;  the  older  man's  face  lighted  fiercely. 
"  I  knew  he  lied,  Wint.  I  knew  he  lied." 

Wint  flushed  with  the  sudden  rush  of  happiness  within  him. 
He  looked  from  his  father  to  Amos.  "  Dad,"  he  said,  "  there's 
one  thing.  I  know  my  friends  now." 

"Routt  is  no  friend." 

"  I  know." 

"  I  always  told  you." 

"  Yes." 

"  He  .  .  ." 

Wint  laughed  softly.  "  Forget  Jack  Routt,  dad.  I've  other 
friends.  Amos,  here." 

Chase's  face  hardened;  he  said,  without  expression, 
"Amos?" 

"  He  and  B.  B.  came  to  me  when  I  thought  I  hadn't  a  friend 


382  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

in  the  world.  You  and  Amos  have  got  to  make  it  up,  dad. 
You've  got  to.  Please." 

The  older  man  hesitated;  then  he  turned  to  Amos.  "All 
right,"  he  said.  "I  ...  Wint's  friends  are  mine." 

Amos  got  up  from  the  bed  and  took  the  offered  hand; 
and  he  smiled  shrewdly.  "  I  did  play  you  dirty,  Chase,"  he 
confessed.  "  I  admit  it.  But  doing  it  —  I  played  a  good  trick 
on  your  son.  Didn't  I  now?  " 

Chase  said  slowly:  "Yes." 

"Wouldn't  you  rather  have  him  as  he  stands?"  Amos 
asked.  "  Wouldn't  you  rather  have  him  as  he  stands  —  than 
the  way  he  was  a  year  ago?  " 

"Yes.     God  knows." 

Amos  said  slowly:  "When  you're  sorest  at  me  —  just  give 
me  credit  for  that." 

Chase  exclaimed  swiftly:  "It  doesn't  matter.  It's  past. 
Done.  All  I  want  is  —  my  boy.  You,  Wint." 

Wint  was  beginning  to  believe  all  was  right  with  the  world. 
He  said  slowly:  "Even  —  after  last  night,  dad?  Hetty  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,"  said  his  father. 

"Mother?  "  Wint  asked.     "She'll  ...     Is  she  unhappy?  " 

"Why  did  you  go  away  from  us,  Wint?  "  his  father  asked 
huskily.  "  Why  did  you  run  away?  " 

"  I  thought  you  wouldn't  want  me  at  home." 

"  We  always  want  you." 

B.  B.  caught  Amos  Caretall's  eye;  and  he  nodded  slightly; 
and  Amos  understood.  He  said :  "  We'll  be  moving,  Wint. 
See  you  uptown,  by  and  by." 

"Yes,  I'll  be  up,"  Wint  said. 

"  So  long,  Chase." 

"  Good-by,"  Chase  told  him  quietly.  Amos  and  B.  B.  went 
out,  and  along  the  hall,  and  down  the  stair.  Wint  and  his 
father  were  left  alone.  For  a  little  while  they  did  not  speak; 
then  Chase  said  gently: 

"  Come  home  to  your  mother,  Wint." 

Wint  asked :  "  Even  —  knowing  this,  what  happened  last 
night?  You  want  me  in  spite  of  it?  " 

"  Yes." 


A  BRIGHTER  CHAPTER  383 

"  In  spite  of  —  what  I've  done?  " 

Chase  threw  up  his  hand ;  he  cried :  "  Damn  it,  yes.  What  do 
we  care?  Whatever  you  do  .  .  ."  His  voice  broke  huskily. 
"  You're  always  our  son !  " 

Wint  could  not  move  for  a  moment;  he  was  choking.  At  last 
he  laughed,  happily  enough;  and  he  touched  his  father's 
shoulder  with  one  hand. 

"  Wait  till  I  put  on  my  collar,"  he  said.     "  I'll  come  along." 

Muldoon,  as  though  in  his  dog  mind  he  understood,  began 
to  prance  and  bark  about  his  master  as  Wint  prepared  to  leave 
the  Moody  hostelry  behind  him.  Wint  was  as  happy  as  the 
dog.  He  knew  his  friends,  now.  Knew  the  loyal  ones.  And 
his  father,  and  his  mother.  .  .  .  They  loved  him. 

All  was  well  with  the  world. 


CHAPTER  III 

HETTY   HAS   HER  DAY 

WINT  and  his  father  walked  home  in  a  silence  that  was 
little  broken.  Across  the  railroad  yards,  up  the 
hill.  A  new  understanding  of  his  father  and 
mother  was  coming  to  Wint;  some  measure  of  comprehension 
of  the  completeness  of  their  love  for  him.  He  marked  that 
there  had  been  no  reproaches  from  his  father,  no  questions, 
no  scolding.  That  which  had  passed  was  to  be  forgotten, 
was  to  be  ignored.  He  was  their  son;  nothing  else  mattered 
in  any  degree.  His  father,  on  their  homeward  way,  spoke 
of  other  matters,  once  or  twice.  He  said  the  day  was  fine;  he 
said  Mrs.  Chase  would  probably  have  breakfast  waiting. 
Wint  took  the  older  man's  lead,  ignored  what  had  passed  the 
night  before. 

When  they  got  to  the  house,  his  mother  met  him  in  the  hall, 
and  she  put  her  arms  around  him  and  cried  on  his  shoul 
der,  and  called  him  her  boy.  Wint  cried,  too,  and  was  not 
ashamed  of  it.  He  kept  patting  her  head,  and  saying :  "  There, 
mother,"  in  an  awkward  way.  She  told  him  he  must  never  go 
away  from  home  again.  Never;  for  anything.  .  .  . 

He  said:  "I  thought  you  would  want  me  to  go." 

But  she  clasped  him  close,  protesting. 

She  had  breakfast  hot  upon  the  stove.  The  elder  Chase  had 
gone  downtown  as  soon  as  it  was  day,  to  try  to  locate  Wint. 
They  ate  together;  and  after  that  first  moment  in  the  hall,  they 
did  not  speak  of  what  had  happened  at  all.  When  breakfast 
was  done,  Wint  went  into  the  kitchen  with  his  mother  to  help 
with  the  dishes.  She  tied  an  apron  around  him,  and  laughed 
at  him  with  a  sob  in  her  voice;  and  Wint  laughed  with  her, 
and  joked  her,  till  the  sob  disappeared.  His  father  looked  in 
on  them  once  or  twice,  then  left  them  alone  together. 

384 


HETTY  HAS  HER  DAY  385 

Once,  Wint  broke  a  little  silence  by  saying,  his  arm  around 
her  shoulders: 

"Mother!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  quick  anxiety;  and  he  said:  "  I'm 
sorry,  for  your  sakes." 

She  said:  "You  didn't  lie,  Wint.  Anyway,  you  didn't  lie. 
There,  dry  that  plate.  So.  .  .  ." 

He  smiled  a  little  whimsically.  After  all,  he  had  lied. 
But  they  did  not  care  whether  it  was  true  or  false;  these  two. 
He  was  their  son.  The  thought  was  glorious.  He  nursed  it, 
treasured  it. 

When  the  work  was  done,  and  the  dishes  were  being  put 
away,  they  heard  a  step  on  the  porch  outside  the  kitchen.  They 
both  looked  that  way;  and  through  the  window  saw  Hetty. 
She  passed  the  window,  knocked  on  the  door. 

Wint  looked  toward  his  mother;  and  he  saw  that  she  was 
white  as  death.  But  even  while  he  looked  at  her,  she  touched 
her  mouth  with  her  hand,  and  steadied  herself,  and  went  to 
the  door  and  opened.  "Hetty!"  she  said  pleasantly,  gently. 
"Hetty!  Well,  come  in." 

The  girl  came  into  the  kitchen.  She  was  pale,  but  she  seemed 
very  sure  of  herself.  She  looked  from  Mrs.  Chase  to  Wint. 
"  I  want  to  talk  to  Wint,"  she  said  gently. 

Mrs.  Chase  nodded.  "You  wait  here."  She  went  quickly 
out  into  the  dining  room.  They  heard  her  speak  to  her  husband. 
She  was  back,  almost  at  once.  "  Go  into  the  sitting  room,"  she 
said.  "  There's  no  one  there." 

Hetty  went  toward  the  door;  but  Wint  at  first  did  not  stir. 
He  was  curiously  ashamed  to  face  Hetty.  She  stopped  in  the 
doorway,  and  looked  back  at  him;  and  he  pulled  himself  to 
gether,  and  untied  his  apron  and  followed  her.  In  the  sitting 
room,  she  sat  down  on  the  couch,  and  Wint  sat  by  the  table. 
She  looked  at  him  steadily,  smiled  a  little. 

He  said:  "Well,  Hetty." 

She  laughed  at  him  in  a  tender  way.  "Oh,  you  Wint!" 
she  exclaimed,  in  a  fashion  that  reminded  him  of  the  old, 
careless  Hetty.  He  shifted  uneasily.  He  felt  as  though  he  were 
guilty  toward  her.  But  there  was  no  accusation  in  her  voice. 


386  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

She  shook  a  forefinger  at  him.  "  What  got  into  you?  "  she 
asked.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  them  to  go  to  the  devil?  " 

There  was  no  way  to  put  it  into  words.  He  shook  his  head. 
"  I  don't  know.  It's  all  right." 

"You  knocked  us  flat;  the  lot  of  us,"  she  said.  "Wint,  you 
pretty  near  killed  me.  You  darned,  decent  kid." 

Wint  stirred  uneasily. 

"  I  thought  I'd  die,"  she  said.  Her  voice  shook,  though  she 
was  smiling.  "  I  .  .  ."  She  laughed.  "  You  ought  to  have 
seen  the  others." 

He  asked  awkwardly:     "What  happened?     I  haven't  heard." 

"Didn't  your  father—" 

"  No.     I  stayed  at  the  Weaver  House  last  night." 

She  laughed.  "  Oh,  you.  Leave  it  to  you.  To  think  of  the 
fool  thing  to  do." 

He  said  soberly :  "  I  was  in  earnest,  Hetty.  I  meant  what 
I  said." 

She  nodded.  "  Sure  you  did.  You're  just  a  big  enough 
fool  to  go  through  with  it,  too." 

"  Of  course." 

"You've  got  a  f-fat  chance,  Wint,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
broke,  and  she  was  very  near  crying  through  her  smiles.  "  I've 
waked  up,  now.  You've  got  a  fine,  fat  chance  of  that." 

"  I  don't  hold  it  against  you,"  he  said.  "  I'd  —  be  good  to 
you." 

"  Don't  be  a  nut,  darn  you !  You'll  make  me  cry.  I  came 
near  crying  myself  to  death,  last  night." 

Wint's  curiosity  was  awake ;  he  asked  again :  "  What  hap 
pened?  " 

"Why,  you  knocked  us  all  flat,"  she  said.  "I  took  it  out 
in  crying.  Routt  beat  it  after  you.  He  was  the  first  to 
move." 

There  was  a  curious,  hard  quality  in  her  voice;  and  Wint 
asked:  "Was  it  .  .  ."  He  bit  off  the  question,  furious  with 
himself  for  asking.  She  said  slowly: 

"  Never  mind.  That's  past.  I  thought  for  a  while  I'd  be 
better  dead;  but  I  know  better,  now.  Nothing  can  kill  you 
unless  you  want  to  be  killed.  Nobody  ever  fell  so  hard  they 


HETTY  HAS  HER  DAY  387 

couldn't  get  up.  I'm  going  to  get  up,  Wint,  and  go  right  on 
living." 

He  told  her  quickly:  "Of  course.  I'll  help.  Hon 
estly " 

She  said  fiercely:  "You  will  not.  If  you  think  I'm  going 
to  let  you  go  through  with  this — "  She  broke  off,  laughed. 
"  Well,  I  was  telling  you  what  happened.  Routt  beat  it  after 
you.  The  rest  of  us  sat  still,  me  bawling.  Then  your  father 
got  up  and  ran  out  to  the  front  door,  and  out  to  the  street. 
While  he  was  gone,  Kite  begun  to  stir.  I  looked  at  Kite. 
Believe  me,  Wint,  he  was  squashed.  He  hadn't  expected  you 
to  —  Jo  what  you  did.  He  looked  like  a  dead  man.  He  stuffed 
his  things  into  his  pocket  and  he  pattered  out  into  the  hall. 
Then  he  came  back;  and  he  said  to  me: 

"'Come,  Hetty.' 

"I  said  to  him:  'You  go  where  you're  going,  you  old  buz 
zard.'  And  I  went  on  crying.  It  felt  good. 

"  I  heard  Kite  go  out  the  front  door ;  and  then  your  father 
came  back.  He  says :  '  He's  gone !  Wint's  gone !  ' 

"  Then  he  looked  at  me,  and  I  couldn't  look  at  him.  And 
he  went  out  and  went  upstairs. 

"  The  rest  of  them  went  along,  then.  Ed  Skinner  went  first. 
Then  B.  B.  and  Amos  together.  Amos  says  to  me:  'Don't  cry 
so,  Hetty.  Don't  cry  so.'  I  told  him  to  shut  up;  and  he  went 
along.  When  they  were  all  gone,  I  got  myself  together  and 
went  out.  Lutcher  and  Kite  were  waiting  at  the  corner.  They 
stopped  me;  and  Kite,  he  says:  'My  God,  what  are  we  going 
to  do?  ' 

"  I  hit  him  in  the  face,  hard  as  I  could.  Lutcher  grabbed  my 
arm;  and  I  told  him  to  let  go,  and  he  let  go.  I  went  on  and 
left  them.  Went  home  and  cried  some  more." 

She  laughed  a  little.  "  I'll  say  I  felt  like  crying,  Wint.  That 
was  your  doing.  Darn  you!  " 

He  said:  "You  mustn't  feel  badly." 

"  Badly !  "  she  echoed,  and  her  eyes  were  suddenly  hard. 
"  Wint,  I  could  cut  out  my  tongue."  She  moved  abruptly,  hid 
her  face.  After  an  instant,  she  turned  to  him  again. 

"  There's  no  use  in  saying  I'm  sorry.     They  fed  me  up  to  it. 


388  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Threats,  and  promises.  If  I'd  do  it,  they'd  give  me  —  a  rat 
of  a  man  to  marry.  He  said  he'd  marry  me  himself.  But  he'd 
said  that  before.  He  told  me  himself  that  he'd  marry  me  if 
I'd  do  this.  Marry  me  and  take  me  away.  I  knew  he  was 
a  liar,  but  I  thought  maybe  he'd  keep  the  promise,  this  time. 
I  thought  I  had  to  have  him,  to  be  able  to  look  people  in  the 
eye.  Oh,  I'm  not  making  excuses,  Wint.  There  isn't  any  excuse 
for  me." 

He  said:  "It's  all  right.     Please  don't  feel  badly." 

"  The  thing  is,"  she  said  steadily,  "  how  am  I  going  to  make 
it  up  to  you?  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?  "  He  did  not  an 
swer  at  once;  and  she  told  him  humbly:  "I'll  do  anything 
you  say." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Nothing.  I'm  willing  to  go  through 
with  it." 

She  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  swift,  furious  movement. 
"  Damn  you,  Wint!  "  she  cried  chokingly.  "  Don't  you  say  that 
again.  Ain't  I  sorry  enough  to  suit  you?  Haven't  you  poured 
coals  of  fire  on  my  head  till  —  till  my  hair's  all  singed? 
Don't  rub  it  in,  Wint,"  she  pleaded.  "You've  made  me  feel 
bad  enough.  I'll  say  I  was  ready  to  quit,  last  night.  It  wasn't 
worth  a  penny,  to  live.  Then  I  thought  I  might  make  it  up 
to  you.  So  I  —  stayed  alive.  Don't  you  rub  it  in  to  me,  now. 
Don't  you  say  that  again.  I  tell  you,  Wint,  I  went  through 
something,  last  night."  Her  voice  shook,  she  stretched  out 
her  hands  to  him.  "  For  God's  sake,  Wint,  don't  rub  it  in  any 
more!  " 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  on  her  cheeks;  her  face  was 
the  face  of  one  in  torment.  He  took  her  hands;  and  he  said 
gently:  "Please  —  I  didn't  mean  to  make  you  unhappy. 
You've  —  really,  you've  made  me  happy.  I  thought  every  one 
would  be  against  me.  But  Amos  and  B.  B.  came  to  me, 
offered  me  their  friendship,  and  their  help.  And  father  came 
to  me.  I  never  knew  before  what  friends  I  had.  You've  done 
that  for  me,  already." 

"  I'll  bet  Routt  came  to  you,  too,"  she  said,  a  terrible  scorn 
in  her  voice.  "He's  a  friend  of  yours,  isn't  he?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Wint,  "  he  came." 


HETTY  HAS  HER  DAY  389 

She  was  frankly  crying,  now;  her  shoulders  shaking,  tears 
streaming  down  her  face.  Her  lips  twisted;  she  held  out  her 
clenched  hands.  "  I'd  like  to  kill  him." 

"  Don't  cry,"  Wint  begged.     "  Please." 

She  brushed  her  arms  across  her  eyes  and  smiled  at  him. 
"All  right.  Now  .  .  .  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?  It's  up 
to  you." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  do  anything,"  Wint  protested.  "  It 
will  all  come  out  right  in  the  end." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  stand  and  wait." 

"Please.     You'll  see." 

She  stamped  her  foot  fiercely.  "  I  tell  you,  no.  I  was  the 
goat,  yesterday.  They  made  a  fool  of  me.  But  I'm  grown  up 
over  night,  Wint.  This  is  my  day.  I'm  going  to  tear  things 
open  —  wide." 

For  all  the  harshness  of  her  speech,  there  was  a  strange  new 
gentleness  about  Hetty;  and  there  was  a  new  strength  in  her. 
Wint  had  never  liked  her  more,  respected  her  more.  He  said 
steadily:  "You're  wrong,  I  think.  You're  excited,  to-day.  1 
tell  you,  things  will  turn  out  better  than  you  think." 

The  telephone  tinkled  in  the  hall ;  and  Wint  said :  "  Wait  a 
minute,  will  you?  "  And  he  went  to  answer  it. 

Sam  O'Brien,  the  fat  restaurant  man,  was  on  the  other  end  of 
the  wire.  He  asked:  "This  Chase's  house?  " 

Wint  said:  "Yes,  this  is  Wint  Chase.     That  you,   Sam?" 

O'Brien  exclaimed:  "Yes,  it's  me!  Say,  Wint  —  you're 
there,  boy.  You're  a  man." 

"Pshaw!" 

"Say,  Wint,"  O'Brien  cut  in.  "Is  Hetty  up  there?  They 
say  at  her  room  she  started  for  there." 

Wint  glanced  toward  the  door  of  the  sitting  room.  "Yes," 
he  said. 

"  Do  me  a  favor?  "  Sam  asked. 

"  Of  course." 

"  Keep  her  there  till  I  come." 

"  All  right,"  Wint  agreed.     "  What  — " 

But  Sam  had  hung  up.  Wint  went  back  to  Hetty.  He  de 
cided,  for  no  reason  in  the  world,  not  to  tell  her  what  Sam 


390  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

had  asked  him  to  do.  She  asked,  as  soon  as  he  came  into  the 
sitting  room: 

"  Who  was  that?     Sam  O'Brien?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  did  he  want?  " 

Wint  laughed  uneasily,  and  said:  "He  just  wanted  to  tell 
me  he  was  on  my  side." 

Hetty  nodded.  "There's  one  decent  man,  Wint."  There 
was  a  curious  warmth  in  her  tone. 

"  Yes,  he  is,"  Wint  agreed. 

"  He's  been  fine  to  me,"  she  said,  a  little  wistfully.  Then 
she  put  Sam  aside  with  a  movement  of  her  hand.  "  Well, 
Wint,  you  want  me  to  go  ahead  my  own  way?  " 

He  hesitated;  then  he  said:  "Hetty,  you're  all  right.  I 
don't  blame  you  for  —  anything.  But  I  do  want  you  to  forget 
the  whole  thing.  You'll  see  it  will  straighten  out.  Don't  mix 
things  up." 

They  heard  his  mother  come  into  the  dining  room,  across 
the  hall,  and  busy  herself  there;  and  they  kept  silent  till  she 
went  out  into  the  kitchen  again.  A  matter  of  minutes.  Hetty 
moved  once,  crossing  from  her  chair  to  stand  beside  Wint 
and  touch  his  shoulder  lightly  with  her  hand.  When  Mrs. 
Chase  had  gone  out  of  hearing,  she  said  softly: 

"  I  guess  there's  one  person  you'd  like  to  have  know  the 
straight  of  this." 

Wint's  jaw  set  slowly  with  something  of  the  old  stubbornness; 
and  he  said :  "  No.  She  doesn't  believe  in  me.  She's  made 
no  move.  I'll  not." 

She  twisted  her  fingers  into  his  hair  and  shook  him  good- 
naturedly.  "You,  Wint;  you're  as  stubborn  as  a  mule,"  she 
told  him.  "  What  would  you  think  of  her  if  she'd  come  run 
ning?  After  you'd  said  you  were  going  to  —  marry  me? 
What  could  she  do?  But  she  knows  you're  a  liar,  just  the 
same.  I'll  bet  she's  just  waiting." 

Some  one  came  up  on  the  porch  outside,  and  she  looked 
sharply  that  way,  and  asked:  "Who's  that?" 

"I'll  go,"  Wint  told  her;  and  he  went  to  the  front  door. 
Sam  O'Brien  was  there.  He  had  expected  Sam.  But  Jack 


HETTY  HAS  HER  DAY  391 

Routt  was  with  him,  and  Wint  had  not  expected  to  see 
Routt. 

He  looked  from  Sam  to  the  other.  Routt's  collar,  he  saw, 
was  rumpled;  and  there  were  little  beads  of  perspiration 
on  Sam's  forehead.  Wint  hesitated.  Sam  said  huskily: 

*'  I  know  you  don't  want  this  skunk  in  your  house,  Wint. 
But  is  — she  here?  " 

"  Yes,"  Wint  told  him. 

"  Well,  this  thing  wants  to  see  her,"  Sam  explained.  "  Speak 
up,  you."  He  looked  at  Routt. 

Routt  said:  "Yes."  He  ran  a  finger  around  inside  his 
collar. 

Wint  moved  aside.  "  Come  in,"  he  agreed ;  and  they  stepped 
into  the  hall.  Then  Hetty  came  out  of  the  sitting  room.  She 
had  heard  their  voices,  heard  what  they  said.  She  stood  very 
still,  looking  at  Jack  Routt  with  inscrutable  eyes. 

Routt  looked  from  Sam  to  Wint  furtively.  Then  he  looked 
at  Hetty;  and  he  moved  toward  her  as  though  he  expected 
violence.  Two  paces  from  where  she  stood,  he  stopped;  he 
fidgeted.  At  last  he  said: 

"Will  you  marry  me?" 

There  was  a  parrot-like  quality  in  his  voice  that  made  Wint, 
even  in  that  moment,  want  to  smile.  Hetty  did  smile;  she 
said  quietly: 

"  I  suppose  Sam  brought  you  here." 

Routt  looked  at  Sam ;  then  he  protested :  "  No.  I  wanted  to 
come.  Honestly." 

"You  never  wanted  anything  honestly  in  your  life,  Jack," 
she  told  him;  and  there  was  as  much  pity  as  anger  in  her 
voice.  "  I  wouldn't  marry  you.  I  wouldn't  look  at  you.  Not 
if  you  were  the  last  man  in  the  world." 

No  one  said  anything.  They  stood  very  still.  Then  Routt 
moved  a  little;  and  he  turned,  and  he  looked  questioningly  at 
Sam  O'Brien.  Sam  had  his  hat  in  his  hand.  He  dropped  it,  to 
leave  his  hands  free.  He  opened  the  front  door  and  stepped  out 
side;  and  Routt  followed  him  as  though  at  a  word  of  command. 

Sam  took  him  by  the  arm;  then  he  closed  the  door.  Wint 
looked  at  Hetty. 


392  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

They  heard  a  muffled,  thudding  sound.  A  hoarse  cry.  A 
scuffle  of  feet.  The  front  gate  banged. 

When  Wint  opened  the  door,  Sam  was  standing  on  one  foot, 
precariously  poised;  and  with  his  handkerchief  he  was  care 
fully  wiping  the  toe  of  his  right  shoe.  Routt  was  not  in  sight. 

Hetty  came  to  the  door  beside  Wint;  and  Sam  looked  at 
her  humbly,  and  he  asked: 

"  Will  you  walk  along  with  me?  " 

Hetty,  smiling  a  little  tenderly,  said:  "You  oughtn't  to 
have  done  that." 

"  I  can  clean  my  shoe,"  Sam  explained,  as  though  that  were 
the  only  consideration.  "Will  you  walk  along  with  me?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment ;  then  she  said  swiftly :  "  Yes, 
Sam,"  and  looked  at  Wint  with  a  quick,  laughing  glance. 
"  Yes,  Sam,  I'll  walk  along  with  you." 

Sam  looked  at  Wint.  "  We're  much  obliged  to  you,"  he 
said. 

Wint  nodded.  Then  Sam  and  Hetty  went  down  to  the  gate; 
and  Wint  watched  them  go  away  together. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WINT'S  RALLY 

IT  was  well  toward  dinner  time  when  Hetty  and  Sam  O'Brien 
went  away  together  and  left  Wint.  He  watched  them  to 
the  corner,  and  thought  Sam  was  a  good  fellow.  And  a 
lucky  one,  too.  There  was  a  fine  strength  and  pride  in  Hetty. 
No  doubt  about  it,  Sam  was  lucky. 

When  they  were  out  of  sight,  Wint  went  into  the  house.  His 
father  had  not  yet  come  downstairs;  Mrs.  Chase  was  still  in 
the  kitchen.  Wint  settled  himself  in  the  sitting  room,  and 
filled  his  pipe,  and  went  over  in  his  thoughts  the  scenes  this 
room  had  witnessed  in  twenty-four  hours  past.  He  looked 
back  at  them  as  though  he  had  been  an  observer.  He  could  not 
believe  he  had  been  chief  actor  in  them  all.  It  is,  perhaps,  this 
trait  of  the  human  mind  which  permits  mankind  to  rise  to 
emergencies.  The  emergency  does  not  seem  like  an  emergency 
at  the  time.  It  seems  rather  like  the  ordinary  run  of  life;  it 
is  only  in  retrospect  that  the  actors  realize,  and  wonder  at 
themselves.  There  is,  during  these  great  moments,  a  vast 
simplicity  about  life.  It  had  been  so  with  Wint;  it  was 
only  now,  as  he  thought  back  over  what  had  taken  place,  that 
the  drama  of  it  caught  him.  And  he  wondered  at  it  all;  and 
most  of  all  he  wondered  at  himself. 

His  father  came  downstairs,  after  a  little  while,  and  joined 
him.  The  older  man  made  no  reference  to  Hetty's  having  been 
there;  and  Wint,  at  first  minded  to  tell  the  whole  story,  to  tell 
his  father  that  Hetty  was  going  to  right  the  wrong  she  had  done, 
decided  on  second  thought  to  wait.  It  would  be  sweeter  to 
anticipate  their  joy  when  they  should  hear  the  truth.  So  he 
held  his  tongue. 

After  a  while,  Mrs.  Chase  called  them  to  dinner;  and  they 
went  into  the  dining  room  together.  Some  impulse  made  Wint 

393 


394  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

drop  his  hand  lightly  on  his  father's  shoulder;  and  the  older 
man  reached  up  and  took  Wint's  hand  and  held  it,  so  that  they 
crossed  the  hall  with  hands  clasped,  as  though  Wint  were  still 
a  little  boy.  He  was  suddenly  very  proud  of  his  father.  And 
ever  so  fond  of  him.  .  .  . 

At  the  dinner  table,  it  was  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 
Mrs.  Chase  was  cheerful;  she  talked  amiably  of  everything  in 
the  world  except  Hetty.  Wint  and  Mr.  Chase  answered  her 
—  that  is  to  say,  they  interrupted  her  with  a  remark  now  and 
then  —  while  they  ate.  It  was  only  when  they  both  had  finished 
that  Chase  looked  at  his  son  and  said,  a  little  awkwardly: 

"You  don't  want  to  forget  you  have  a  rally  arranged  for 
to-night,  Wint." 

Wint   exclaimed :  "  Good  Lord ;  I  had   forgotten !  " 

"You're  not  going  to  give  it  up?  " 

"  Give  it  up?  No.  But  I'd  forgotten  all  about  it.  I'll  have 
to  go  uptown." 

"You  had  made  some  arrangements,  hadn't  you?  " 

"  Yes.  Hired  the  Rink.  B.  B.  is  going  to  preside.  That  is, 
he  said  he  would.  And  I  asked  Sam  O'Brien  to  speak,  and 
you  promised  that  you  would." 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  not,"  Chase  said,  flushing  uncomfortably. 
Wint  asked,  smiling  to  take  the  sting  out  of  his  words: 

"Not  deserting  me,  are  you?  " 

"No.  I'll  be  with  you.  Sitting  on  the  stage.  But  —  I 
wouldn't  know  what  to  say,  Wint." 

"And  Davy  Morgan  is  going  to  speak."  He  pushed  back 
his  chair.  "  I'll  go  right  uptown  and  make  sure  things  are  all 
right." 

Chase  said :  "  I'm  glad  you're  not  giving  it  up.  I'll  walk 
up  with 'you,  Wint." 

His  mother  kissed  him  good-by  at  the  door;  and  that  was 
unusual.  It  was  the  only  sign  she  gave  of  what  she  must  have 
been  feeling.  Wint  had  sometimes  thought,  impatiently,  that 
she  was  a  babbling  old  woman,  never  able  to  keep  a  thought 
to  herself.  He  was  learning  a  new  respect  for  her.  And 
something  more.  He  had  felt  that  he  was  justified  in  counting 
on  his  father  and  mother  to  stand  by  him;  but  he  had  expected 


WINT'S  RALLY  395 

and  been  prepared  for  questions  and  perhaps  reproaches. 
There  were  no  questions;  there  was  never  a  reproach.  It  is 
often  tactful  to  keep  silent;  and  tact  is  sometimes  a  shade  nobler 
than  loyalty,  than  many  another  virtue. 

He  hugged  her  close  and  hard,  kissed  her  again;  then  he 
and  his  father  walked  away  toward  town.  Shoulder  to  shoulder, 
swinging  like  brothers.  They  met  people.  Wint  could  see  a 
furtive  curiosity  in  the  eyes  of  those  they  met.  But  he  could 
bear  that.  He  had  anticipated  covert  jeers,  perhaps  an  open 
jibe;  and  his  muscles  had  hardened  at  the  thought. 

They  went  into  the  Post  Office  together,  and  separated  there. 
Wint  met  Dick  Hoover;  and  Hoover  gripped  his  hand  and 
clapped  his  shoulder  and  told  him  he  was  all  right.  That 
heartened  Wint.  On  his  way  from  the  Post  Office,  he  en 
countered  V.  R.  Kite,  face  to  face,  in  front  of  the  Bazaar. 
Kite  dropped  his  eyes  and  scuttled  to  cover  like  a  crab  in  sea 
weed.  Wint  chuckled  with  amusement.  Hoover  said: 

"  He  can't  face  you." 

Wint  laughed  good-naturedly.  "Oh,  Kite's  all  right.  He 
fights  in  the  only  way  he  knows.  .  .  ." 

He  left  Hoover  in  front  of  the  Journal  office  and  went  in. 
B.  B.  was  there,  stoking  the  decrepit  stove,  breaking  up  the 
clotted  coals  with  a  bit  of  wood,  and  pouring  on  fresh  fuel.  He 
greeted  Wint  smilingly;  said: 

"Good  afternoon!  " 

"Hello,  B.  B.!"  Wint  rejoined,  and  sat  down.  "Still 
fussing  with  that  stove?  " 

B.  B.,  amiably  enough,  said :  "  Yes.  It's  a  good  stove.  Per 
haps  it  doesn't  look  as  well  as  it  might;  but  it  heats  this  office. 
That's  the  way  with  a  good  many  things  that  don't  look  very 
well;  they  manage  to  do  their  work  better  than  the  fine-looking 
things.  Did  you  ever  stop  to  think  of  that?  " 

"  In  other  words,"  Wint  agreed,  "  beauty  is  only  skin  deep, 
even  in  stoves." 

"Well,  I'd  rather  have  an  ugly  stove  that  would  draw  and 
give  heat  than  a  fine  one  that  wouldn't,"  B.  B.  declared;  and 
Wint  said  he  did  not  blame  him.  B.  B.  sat  down  at  his  desk, 
working  and  talking  at  the  same  time.  This  was  a  way  he  had ; 


3%  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

a  way  he  had  to  have,  for  there  was  nearly  always  some  one  in 
the  office  to  talk  to  him.  Wint  said: 

"  I  almost  forgot  about  my  meeting  to-night.  Are  you  still 
willing  to  preside?  " 

B.  B.  said:     "Certainly." 

"  I  thought  you  might  have  changed  your  mind." 

"  No  indeed.     At  the  Rink,  is  it?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Who  are  your  speakers?  " 

"  I'm  not  having  any  fine  talent,"  Wint  said,  smiling.  "  Just 
a  couple  of  good  friends  of  mine,  Sam  O'Brien  and  Davy 
Morgan.  And  if  you'd  be  willing  to  say  something  — " 

"  Oh,  I  always  talk  when  I  get  a  chance  like  that." 

"  Sure." 

"  Is  your  father  going  to  speak?  " 

Wint  shook  his  head.  "  No,"  he  said  frankly.  "  Dad's  all 
right.  He's  been  absolutely  fine.  But  —  he  says  he  wouldn't 
know  what  to  say.  He's  no  speaker,  you  know." 

"  I've  heard  him  do  very  well." 

Wint  laughed.  "  You  probably  wrote  those  speeches  for  him 
yourself."  And  B.  B.  good-naturedly  acknowledged  the  corn. 

"  About  half  past  seven  ?  "  Wint  asked,  as  he  got  up  to  go ; 
and  B.  B.  agreed  to  the  hour,  and  said  he  would  be  there. 

When  he  had  left  B.  B.,  Wint  telephoned  the  furnace  to 
make  sure  of  Davy  Morgan;  and  Morgan  said  energetically 
that  he  surely  would  be  on  hand.  "  I've  some  few  things  to 
say,  also,"  he  declared.  "  I  can  talk  when  they  get  me  mad, 
Wint.  And  I'm  mad  enough,  to-day." 

Wint  said:  "All  right;  go  as  far  as  you  like.  This  is  a 
fight.  It's  no  pink  tea."  And  he  dropped  in  on  Sam  O'Brien. 
But  Sam  was  not  in  the  restaurant.  His  underling  told  Wint 
the  fat  man  had  been  out  all  day. 

"  He  went  looking  for  Jack  Routt,"  the  man  explained. 

"  He  found  him,"  said  Wint.  "  Well,  tell  Sam  I'm  counting 
on  him  to  be  at  the  Rink  to-night." 

From  the  restaurant,  he  crossed  the  street  to  Dick  Hoover's 
office.  Dick  and  his  father  were  busy,  so  that  Wint  was  alone 
for  a  time.  Then  he  decided  people  might  think  he  was  hiding; 


WINT'S  RALLY  397 

so  he  came  downstairs  and  out  to  the  street  again,  and  went 
to  the  barber  shop  for  a  haircut.  Jim  Radabaugh  was  there; 
and  Jim  shifted  the  bulge  in  his  cheek  and  shook  hands  with 
Wint  and  said: 

"  You're  there,  boss.     I'd  say  you're  there." 

Marshall,  the  barber,  violated  all  the  traditions  of  his  craft 
by  being  a  silent  man.  He  said  nothing  whatever  while  he 
trimmed  Wint's  crisp  hair;  and  Wint  was  glad  of  that.  He 
would  not  hide.  But  he  did  not  want  to  talk  overmuch. 
When  he  came  out  of  the  barber  shop,  he  saw  Amos  and  Sam 
O'Brien  and  Peter  Gergue  on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  They 
were  walking  purposefully,  coming  uptown  from  the  direc 
tion  of  Amos's  home.  They  saw  him,  and  Amos  waved  his 
hand  in  greeting;  then  Peter  spoke  to  Amos,  and  left  the  others, 
and  came  across  to  Wint,  scratching  the  back  of  his  head. 
Wint  said: 

"Hello,  Peter." 

Gergue  grinned.     "Well,  Wint,  you've  started  something." 

Wint  nodded.     "  I  suppose  so." 

"You've  made  'em  talk,  Wint.     That  never  hurt  a  bit." 

"  I  think  you  told  me  that  once  before,"  Wint  agreed,  laugh 
ing. 

"  Well,  and  it's  so,"  Gergue  insisted.  He  looked  all  around, 
took  Wint's  arm.  "Let's  walk  along,"  he  suggested. 

Amos  and  Sam  had  disappeared.  Wint  said :  "  I've  been 
looking  for  Sam.  I  want  to  see  him." 

"  What  about?  " 

"  He's  going  to  speak  at  my  meeting  to-night.  At  least  I 
want  him  to." 

Gergue  chuckled;  and  he  gripped  Wint's  arm  as  though  he 
knew  a  thing  or  two,  which  he  might  tell  if  he  chose.  "Oh, 
he'll  speak,"  he  said.  "  Sam'll  speak." 

"I've  counted  on  him." 

"You  going  to  speak,  ain't  you?  "  Gergue  asked. 

"Why,  yes.     Naturally." 

"  Fixed  you  up  a  speech,  have  you?  " 

"Not  yet.  I'll  —  just  say  whatever  comes  up  at  the  time. 
Anything." 


398  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Gergue  shook  his  head.  "  I  tell  you,  Wint,"  he  said.  "  You 
better  go  on  home  and  write  you  a  speech.  A  good  one,  with 
flowers  on  it,  and  all." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  need  to." 

"  I've  seen  more'n  one  man  get  up  on  his  hind  legs  and  go 
dumb.  Good  idea  to  have  something  on  your  mind  before  you 
get  up." 

"  We-ell,  maybe." 

"  I  tell  you,"  Gergue  said  again.  "  You  go  on  home  and  fix 
up  something.  Best  thing  to  do." 

"  I  want  to  see  Sam." 

"  I'll  see  him." 

Wint  was  more  than  half  persuaded,  before  Peter  spoke  to 
him.  He  had  thought  of  going  home;  he  was  tired.  He 
wanted  to  sleep.  He  said:  "  We-ell,  all  right." 

"  That's  the  talk,"  said  Peter.     "  You  go  along." 

"  So  long,  then." 

"  Fix  you  up  a  good  one,"  Gergue  advised  him  again.  "  Fix 
it  up,  and  learn  it,  and  all.  You'll  maybe  be  interrupted,  you 
know." 

"  If  there's  any  one  there  to  interrupt,"  Wint  said,  in  a  tone 
of  doubt;  and  Gergue  cackled. 

"  Lord,  there'll  be  some  folks  there.  Don't  you  worry  about 
that.  You  go  home  and  fix  you  up  a  speech.  You'll  have  a 
crowd." 

So  Wint  went  home,  in  mid-afternoon.  He  found  the  house 
empty.  His  mother,  he  thought,  was  probably  next  door,  with 
Mrs.  Hullis.  He  felt  sleepy;  and  he  went  to  his  room  and  lay 
down.  His  father  woke  him,  at  last.  Told  him  it  was  supper 
time. 

At  supper,  Chase  asked  Wint's  mother  if  she  were  going  to 
Wint's  rally.  She  said :  "  I  don't  know.  I  said  to  Mrs.  Hullis 
this  afternoon  that  I  wanted  to  go,  but  I  didn't  know  whether 
women  went.  And  she  said  she  didn't  know  either.  But  I  told 
her  I  — " 

"  You'll  have  plenty  of  company,"  her  husband  told  her. 
"  From  what  I  hear,  the  whole  town  is  going  to  be  there.  Every 
one  was  talking  about  it  this  afternoon." 


WINT'S  RALLY  399 

"  Then  I'm  going,"  she  said.  "  Mrs.  Hullis  wanted  me  to  go 
with  her;  and  I — " 

"  You  go  with  her,"  Chase  advised.  "  I'll  be  on  the  stage, 
with  Wint." 

She  said:  "I'll  have  to  leave  the  dishes.  There  won't 
be—" 

"  I'll  do  them,  mother,  while  you're  dressing,"  Wint  toM  her 
cheerfully.  "  Don't  worry  about  that." 

"Well,  I  don't  know!" 

In  the  end,  Wint  and  his  father  did  them  together.  Wint 
broke  a  plate,  and  Mrs.  Chase  called  down  the  stairs  to  know 
what  had  happened,  and  protested  that  she  ought  to  come  down 
and  do  them.  But  they  would  not  let  her.  Afterwards,  they 
all  started  downtown  together,  Wint  and  his  father,  Mrs. 
Chase  and  Mrs.  Hullis.  Two  by  two. 

It  was  dark;  the  early  dark  of  a  winter  evening.  They  met 
people,  or  overtook  them,  or  were  overtaken  by  them;  and 
Wint  thought  there  were  more  people  than  usual  abroad.  The 
moon  was  bright  again  this  night,  bright  as  it  had  been  the 
night  before  when  Wint  took  his  way  to  the  Weaver  House. 
That  seemed  more  like  weeks  than  hours  ago.  As  they  came 
nearer  the  Rink,  they  saw  more  people;  and  Chase  said: 

"  You're  certainly  going  to  have  a  crowd." 

Wint  nodded.  He  was  beginning  to  'be  nervous.  He  real 
ized  that  this  was  going  to  be  hard. 

But  it  was  only  when  they  turned  the  last  corner  and  started 
down  the  hill  toward  the  Rink  that  he  realized  just  how  hard 
it  was  going  to  be.  It  seemed  to  him  all  Hardiston  was  there 
ahead  of  him.  The  crowd  clustered  in  front  of  the  Rink  and 
extended  out  into  the  street;  and  more  were  coming  from  each 
direction.  Mrs.  Hullis  and  Mrs.  Chase,  ahead,  were  lost  in  the 
throng.  Wint  stopped;  he  turned  to  his  father. 

"We'll  cut  through  the  back  way,"  he  said. 

Chase  agreed;  and  they  turned  down  an  alley,  and  came 
circuitously  to  the  stage  door  and  went  in.  The  minute  he 
came  inside  the  door,  he  heard  the  hum  and  buzz  of  voices.  He 
could  see  out  on  the  stage,  with  its  stock  set  of  a  farmyard 
scene.  There  were  chairs,  and  a  table. 


400  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

Amos,  and  Sam  O'Brien,  and  B.  B.  and  two  or  three  others 
were  waiting  just  inside  the  stage  door;  and  Sam  gripped  Wint's 
shoulders  and  exclaimed :  "  Lord,  but  you  give  us  a  scare,  Wint. 
Thought  you  wasn't  coming.  I  was  all  set  to  go  fetch  you." 

"  Oh,  I  was  coming,  all  right,"  Wint  said  nervously,  one  ear 
attuned  to  the  murmur  of  the  crowd.  "  Sounds  as  though  there 
were  a  lot  of  people  here." 

"  Every  seat,  and  standing  room  in  the  aisles,  and  half  of 
'em  can't  get  in." 

Wint  grinned  weakly.  "  And  I  suppose  they've  got  every 
rotten  egg  in  town." 

Sam  stared;  then  he  howled.  "Rotten  egg!  Oh,  Lord, 
Wint,  you'll  be  the  death  of  me.  I'll  die  a-laughing.  Rotten 
egg !  "  He  turned  to  Amos.  "  Wint  says  rotten  egg !  "  he 
cried. 

Amos  looked  at  Wint  in  a  curious  fashion;  and  he  smiled. 
"It's  half  past  seven,"  he  said.  "No  need  to  make  them 
wait." 

Wint  gulped.     "  All  right.     I'm  ready  as  I  will  be." 

Amos  nodded.     "  Then  it's  your  move,  B.  B." 

B.  B.  cleared  his  throat.  "Very  well."  He  turned  and 
started  toward  the  stage.  Sam  shepherded  Wint  that  way. 
Amos  and  Wint's  father  came  side  by  side,  the  others  following. 
Wint  found  himself  out  on  the  stage. 

The  glare  of  the  footlights  blinded  him  for  a  moment;  but 
he  heard  the  sudden,  brief  clatter  of  handclapping  that  greeted 
them.  The  stir  was  quickly  hushed.  His  eyes,  accustomed  to 
the  footlights,  discovered  that  the  house  was  banked  full  of 
people.  Floor  and  gallery  were  jammed.  Small  boys  clung 
to  the  great  beams  and  steel  rods  that  crisscrossed  to  sup 
port  the  roof.  Some  of  them  seemed  right  overhead.  And 
everywhere  Wint  looked,  people  were  staring  at  him.  He  felt 
the  actual,  physical  weight  of  all  those  eyes,  overwhelming  him. 
He  felt  crushed,  helpless;  he  had  a  curious  obsession  that  he 
could  not  move  hands  or  feet.  He  worked  the  fingers  of  his 
right  hand  cautiously,  and  was  relieved  to  find  that  they  an 
swered  to  his  will.  He  was  dazed. 


WINT'S  RALLY  401 

He  became  conscious  that  B.  B.  was  on  his  feet,  his  hands 
clasped  in  front  of  him  in  a  characteristic  way;  there  was  a 
little  smile  upon  his  face,  and  he  was  speaking  in  a  low,  pleas 
ant  voice.  Wint  could  not  catch  the  words;  his  ears  were  not 
functioning.  His  senses  were  numbed  by  that  overpowering 
sea  of  faces  in  front  of  him. 

He  caught,  presently,  a  word  or  two  that  appalled  him. 
".  .  .  violate  the  usual  order,"  B.  B.  was  saying.  "  The  prin 
cipal  speaker  usually  last  .  .  .  Keep  you  waiting.  .  .  . 
Lengthy  introduction.  ...  I  believe  you  know  him,  now.  .  .  ." 

He  turned  to  look  at  Wint;  and  Wint,  appalled  and  panic- 
stricken,  saw  the  invitation  in  B.  B.'s  eyes.  B.  B.  wanted  him 
to  speak  first;  but  he  was  still  tongue-tied  and  muscle-fast  in 
the  face  of  all  those  eyes.  He  shook  his  head  weakly.  Some 
one  tugged  at  his  elbow.  Sam  O'Brien.  Sam  whispered 
hoarsely: 

"  Get  up  on  your  feet,  boy !  " 

Wint  shook  his  head  again,  trying  to  find  words  to  explain. 
Then  a  man  yelled,  out  beyond  those  footlights.  Other  men 
yelled.  Wint  flushed  angrily,  his  courage  came  back.  They 
thought  him  afraid.  Baying  him  like  dogs.  .  .  .  He'd  show 
them  all.  .  .  . 

He  stood  up  and  strode  forward  to  the  very  lip  of  the  stage. 
There  was  a  moment's  hush.  He  flung  out  one  hand.  "  Peo 
ple  .  .  ."  he  began. 

But  it  was  as  well  that  Wint  had  not  wasted  time  in  following 
Gergue's  advice  to  fix  up  a  good  speech;  because  on  that  one 
word  of  his,  an  overwhelming  blast  of  sound  struck  him  full  in 
the  face.  A  roar,  a  bellowing,  a  whistling,  a  shrilling.  .  .  . 
Shouts  and  screams  and  cries.  .  .  .  He  stiffened,  furious. 
They  were  trying  to  yell  him  down.  He  flung  up  both  hands, 
shouted  at  them.  .  .  . 

Every  one  in  the  house  was  up  on  his  or  her  feet.  Some  one 
threw  his  hat  in  the  air.  Order  came  out  of  chaos.  A  terrible, 
rhythmic  order.  The  blare  of  sound  dissolved  into  beats; 
they  pounded  on  Wint's  ears;  he  shuddered  under  the  blow  of 
them.  His  anger  gave  way  to  bewilderment.  He  could  not 


402  THE  GREAT  ACCIDENT 

understand.  He  bent  lower  to  see  more  clearly  the  faces  of 
those  in  the  front  row,  just  beyond  the  footlights.  Dick  Hoover 
was  there.  And  Dick  was  yelling  in  a  fashion  fit  to  split  his 
throat,  flinging  his  fists  up  toward  Wint,  shrieking.  Beside 
Dick,  Joan.  Her  face  stood  out  suddenly  before  Wint's  eyes. 
She  was  crying;  that  is  to  say,  tears  were  streaming  down  her 
cheeks.  Yet  was  she  happy,  too.  Smiling,  laughing,  calling  to 
him.  .  .  .  She  was  clapping  her  hands,  he  saw.  Then  he  dis 
covered  that  others  were  clapping  their  hands,  while  they 
yelled  at  him.  Everybody  was  clapping  their  hands.  .  .  . 

Utterly  bewildered,  Wint  whirled  around  to  look  at  the  men 
behind  him.  And  there  was  Amos,  both  hands  upraised,  beat 
ing  time  to  that  appalling  roar  that  swept  up  from  the  house 
before  them.  Beating  time,  leading  them.  .  .  . 

Sam  O'Brien  and  Davy  Morgan  —  they  were  both  yelling 
like  fools  —  came  swiftly  across  the  stage  to  where  Wint  stood. 
They  caught  his  arms.  He  struggled  with  them,  not  understand 
ing.  They  swept  him  off  his  feet,  up  in  the  air,  to  their  shoul 
ders.  .  .  .  Swung  him  to  face  the  house. 

The  noise  doubled;  then  it  seemed  as  though  an  army  of 
men  swarmed  upon  the  stage.  So,  at  last,  Wint  understood. 
They  were  not  trying  to  yell  him  down. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  hopeful  facts  of  life  that  all  mankind 
is  so  ready  to  recognize,  and  to  applaud,  an  action  which  is  fine. 
Wint  was  in  the  hands  of  his  friends.  He  thought,  for  a  little 
while,  that  they  would  kill  him. 

When  it  was  all  over  —  and  this  took  time,  and  left  Wint  sore 
and  stiff  from  hand-shaking  and  back-slapping  —  the  people 
began  to  drift  away.  And  Wint  escaped,  off  the  stage,  into 
one  of  the  compartments  that  served  as  greenroom  for  theatrical 
folk.  His  father  was  there,  and  his  mother.  And  Peter,  and 
Amos,  and  Sam. 

Every  one  seemed  to  be  wild  with  exultation;  they  continued 
the  celebration,  there  among  themselves.  And  Wint  heard  how 
it  had  been  done.  Hetty  had  gone  to  Amos  with  the  story. 
To  Joan  first,  Sam  told  Wint.  "  I  was  with  her,"  the  fat  man 
said.  "You  understand.  I  was  with  her." 


WINT'S  RALLY  403 

Wint  nodded,  gripping  Sam's  shoulder.  "  She's  fine,"  he 
said.  "  You're  lucky.  I  understand." 

Joan,  Sam  said,  sent  them  to  Amos,  and  Amos  had  arranged 
the  rest ;  sent  Wint  home  —  Gergue  was  his  agent  in  this  —  and 
spread  the  word  through  Hardiston.  To-night  had  attested  the 
thoroughness  of  his  work. 

Wint  found  a  chance  at  last  to  thank  Amos.  They  were  a 
little  apart  from  the  others;  and  they  talked  it  over  briefly. 
Amos.  Wint  thought,  was  curiously  subdued,  curiously  sad.  He 
wondered  at  this.  But  he  understood,  at  the  end. 

He  had  said:  "Wonder  what  Routt  will  say  to  this,  anyway? 
And  Kite?  " 

"  You  don't  have  to  —  worry  about  Routt,"  said  Amos. 

Wint  asked  quickly:  "Why  not?  Is  he  ...  Is  there 
something?  " 

"  He  took  the  noon  train,"  said  Amos.  "  And  —  Agnes  went 
with  him.  She  telephoned  to-night.  She  says  they're  mar 
ried." 

Wint  was  so  stunned  that  for  a  moment  he  could  not  speak; 
he  could  not  move.  He  managed  to  grip  Amos's  hand;  tried 
to  say  something. 

"  I've  said  to  myself,  more  than  once,"  Amos  told  him  husk 
ily,  "  that  I  wished  her  mother  hadn't  've  died."  He  began, 
slowly,  to  fill  his  pipe.  Wint  thought  there  was  something 
heroic,  splendid  about  the  man.  Facing  life,  driving  ahead. 
And  this  to  think  upon.  ...  He  was  sick  with  sorrow. 

Amos  was  facing  the  stage;  he  said  slowly,  smiling  a  little, 
"  but  forget  that.  Here's  some  one  coming  for  you  to  see  her 
home." 

When  Wint  turned,  he  saw  Joan. 


CHAPTER  V 

SEEING  JOAN   HOME 

THEY  walked  home  slowly,  Wint  and  Joan.     The  moon 
was  bright  upon  them;  the  streets  were  still  filled  with 
the   dispersing    throng.     People    spoke   to    them,    then 
went   discreetly   on   their   way,   and   smiled   back   at  the  two. 
Wint  and  Joan  said  little;  and  what  they  said  was  of  no  im 
portance.     He  told  her  he  had  seen  her  crying. 

"  I  had  to,"  she  said.     "  I  was  so  happy." 

"  I  wasn't  happy,"  Wint  declared.     "  I  was  scared." 

She  said  she  didn't  blame  him.  "  It  must  have  been  hard  to 
face  them  all." 

He  nodded.  "I'll  tell  you;  all  that  noise  .  .  .  It  —  made 
me  seasick.  Something  like  that." 

"  I  know,"  she  said. 

When  they  were  halfway  home,  she  told  him  that  Hetty  had 
come  to  her,  that  morning.  Wint  looked  at  her  quickly. 

"Hetty's  all  right,"  he  said.  "She'll  be  all  right.  She's 
found  herself." 

Joan  nodded.     "  It's  going  to  be  .a  fight,  for  her." 

"  She'll  win.     Sam  will  help." 

"  I  know.     I  saw  that,  this  morning." 

A  little  later,  she  said:  "You  —  did  the  right  thing.  Fool 
ish,  maybe.  But  — -  it  was  fine,  too.  Foolish  things  often  are." 

Wint  shook  his  head.     "  But  I'd  like  to  pound  Routt." 

"  Don't,"  she  said.     "  Agnes  loves  him." 

Wint  told  her  then  what  Amos  had  told  him;  and  she  uttered 
a  low,  pitiful  exclamation.  "  I  didn't  know  that,"  she  said. 
"  But  —  they  may  be  happy.  Agnes  is  good.  .  .  .  Loyal.  .  .  . 
In  her  way." 

""You  knew  she  loved  him?  " 

"  Yes.     I've  always  known.     Agnes  had  talked  to  me." 

"  I  hope  Routt  does  —  settle  down." 

Joan  said  thoughtfully:  "There  is  something  strong  in  him. 
Misdirected." 

404 


SEEING  JOAN  HOME  405 

"  I  liked  him,"  Wint  said.  "  I  can't  help  it,  even  now.  He 
was  my  friend." 

"  I  believe  they  will  come  out  all  right.     I  feel  it." 

Wint  laughed  at  her  gently.     "  Intuition?  " 

"  Yes.     You  men  call  it  a  hunch." 

Silence  again,  for  a  while.  They  came  to  her  house.  Wint 
thought  the  simple  place  was  beautiful  in  the  moonlight;  he 
wanted,  desperately,  to  go  in.  But  there  was  a  curious  diffi 
dence  upon  him,  and  he  stopped  at  the  gate  till  she  said: 

"  Come.     It's  not  cold,  to-night.     We  can  sit  on  the  porch." 

"You  want  me?" 

"Yes,  Wint."  Her  eyes  said  more  than  her  words.  He 
opened  the  gate,  and  they  went  up  the  walk  to  the  house  sedately 
enough,  side  by  side.  Any  one  might  have  seen. 

The  moonlight  did  not  fall  upon  the  porch.  There  was  a 
shadowed  place  there.  When  they  came  into  this  shadow,  Joan 
stopped,  and  looked  at  Wint.  Her  eyes  were  very  dark.  Some 
thing  was  pounding  in  his  throat,  so  that  he  could  not  speak.  He 
put  out  one  hand,  in  an  uncertain,  fumbling  way.  Joan  looked 
down  at  his  hand,  and  smiled  a  little,  and  put  her  hand  in  his. 

They  stood  thus  for  a  little,  hand  in  hand,  facing  each  other. 
Wint  said  huskily,  at  last: 

"I've  — tried,  Joan." 

Her  voice  was  clear  and  sweet  as  a  bell  when  she  answered. 
"You've  done  more  than  try,  Wint,"  she  told  him.  "You've 
—  won." 

So,  without  either  of  them  knowing,  or  caring,  how  it  hap 
pened,  she  was  in  his  arms.  And  he  kissed  her;  and  her  lips 
answered  his.  No  cool  kiss  of  a  child,  this.  Months  of  long 
ing  and  of  yearning  spoke  through  his  lips,  and  through  hers. 
Infinite  promise  of  the  years  to  come.  .  .  . 

While  they  sat  together  on  her  shadowed  porch  thereafter, 
they  could  hear  for  a  long  time  the  murmuring  voices  of  peo 
ple  passing  on  their  homeward  way.  Some  looked  toward 
Joan's  house;  but  they  could  not  see  Wint  and  Joan. 

It  was  as  well;  for  it  is  the  way  of  Hardiston  to  talk.  The 
way  of  a  little  town.  .  .  . 

THE   END 

FEINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 


Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


10  1948 

12Feb'49PA 


LD  21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


m 

W72/ 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


